


Air I Breathe

by heartofcathedrals



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Asthma, Christmas, Chronic Illness, Father-Son Relationship, Irondad, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Pneumonia, Sick Peter, Sickfic, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump, spiderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2020-11-28 12:28:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 96,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20966567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofcathedrals/pseuds/heartofcathedrals
Summary: Peter licks his dry lips and tries to get his eyes to adjust to the brightness, his chest muscles pulling as he struggles to breathe against gravity. “Tony?” His voice is weak, full of fear and confusion and Jesus, he feels like his body is on fire.Why is everything on fire?“Right here, bud.”“Wha’s goin’ on? Where’s May?”“Still on her business trip. You’ve got a pretty high fever and your heart rate is through the roof. Gonna get you home and get both of them down, okay?”“Did I pass out?” He closes his eyes in embarrassment because he knows he did, knows that he’s scared the shit out of Ned and Mrs. Benninger and MJ.MJ.Ugh.---------------------Peter gets sick with pneumonia right before Christmas and May’s on a business trip, which leaves Tony in Dad Mode.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This started out as an IronDad Gift Exchange 2019 gift for lovely-cupcake-witch on Tumblr and became 14k+ in a Word doc. We’re pretending that Tony’s still here, that Tony never sold Avengers Tower, and that Morgan hasn’t been born yet. A huge shout out to my beta reader, HDAnalyst, who is always full of ideas and so so supportive. Please leave kudos and comments! :)

_It's the same fight all over again_  
_It's the same bite breaking on my skin_  
_It's the same light when you let me in_  
_You let me in you let me in_  
_You are the air I breathe_  
-"Air I Breathe" by Mat Kearney__

__

_ _ __ _ _

_ __ _

**Chapter 1  
Friday, December 20**

Peter’s StarkWatch vibrates on his wrist just as Mrs. Benninger, his chemistry teacher, deigns to claim that CATions are PAWS-itive in a last-ditch effort to make the topic even more cringe worthy than it already is. He stifles a laugh, which quickly becomes a short series of coughs, curses this stupid cold he has, and waits for Mrs. Benninger to have her back to the class to look at his message.

_FRIDAY says your heart rate’s been high,_ Tony texts. _You okay, kiddo?_

He closes his eyes and tries to think of a response.

Truth is, his lungs feel like they’re filling with thick, heavy sludge. It’s been like this for a few days, but he’s brushed it off as indoor allergies since his school was built in the early 1800s and probably has dust from then lurking in the shadows. It wasn’t that bad until he ran for the subway this morning, the chilled December air causing his lungs to seize before forcing honking, choking coughs that left Peter leaning against a random brick building taking puffs from his rescue inhaler. He hasn’t had to use it in a few weeks, but he has an awful, nagging feeling that this morning was only the beginning of another downward spiral.

Karen, his AI, has been sending him high heart rate alerts all day, and now he knows that Tony’s been getting them, too. At first, he thought maybe it was the two large coffees and the inhaler, but then he’d hit 140 after he had run up four floors and was subsequently late to his trig class because he couldn’t get the coughing to stop. Cheeks red and eyes watering, he went into the bathroom to wash his face, take his inhaler, and calm his breathing down. It had taken nearly 15 minutes, and he’d had to lie and chalk it up to a stomachache to avoid getting detention. 

It’s not until now, in his chem classroom which has always been a few degrees below Antarctica, that he thinks he might have a fever. He had an inkling earlier, when Ned, who is never cold, was bundled up in English class and Peter felt like he was sitting on the surface of the sun, but Karen hasn’t alerted to a fever, so he’d shrugged and pulled his sweatshirt off. He’s been holding out on going to the nurse or calling home because there’s only three periods of school left before MJ’s Christmas party at her apartment in Chelsea, and Peter has been looking forward to this for weeks. He’s got an ugly Christmas sweater ready to go, one that reads “Tis the Season to Be Amazing” with Spiderman hanging upside down by his web shooters. It was going to be his conversation starter, the lead-in to telling MJ just how amazing she is and much he likes her. Tonight needs to happen. Has to happen, because Tony is having a New Year’s Eve party in a week’s time and Peter is planning on kissing MJ at midnight. 

With her permission, of course.

But he can’t get her permission if he doesn’t have the chance to tell her how he feels and invite her. He’s already planned to take a quick nap, dose up on Dayquil, and catch the subway to be there by 7. It’s just a cold, after all.

He feels his StarkWatch vibrate again, but this time it’s Karen. _Peter, you currently have a fever of 102.4. _Shit. He rubs at his chest, which is feeling kind of funny, and sniffles to keep his nose from running all over his note packet. His pencil rolls off of the desk and it takes him a moment to register that it’s hit the tile.

“Peter?” he hears MJ whisper from the seat beside him as she tries to push his pencil on the floor toward him with her foot. “You don’t look so hot.” And Peter would laugh if he could, because he’s definitely burning up and sweating through his t-shirt in late December, but right now he’s feeling like he’s stuck in his own webbing, his muscles tight and sluggish as he tries to get his body to cooperate and react.

“Need something, man?” Ned asks from behind him.

“I’m okay,” he whispers back, but even he’s not convinced. He feels the world around him spin as he leans over and gets a false grip on the back of his chair, his body tumbling forward, and suddenly he’s on the floor, the underside of desks with globs of gum stuck beneath them and stark white ceiling tiles filling his view before his eyelids, heavy and burning from the lighting, close.

x

Peter feels like he’s stuck in a cloud when he opens his eyes, everything too bright and fuzzy for his liking. He puts a hand up and tries desperately to lift himself up with his free hand.

“Woah, there, take it easy, kid,” Tony is saying as he gently guides Peter down onto the crinkly paper of the nurse’s office cot.

Peter licks his dry lips and tries to get his eyes to adjust to the brightness, his chest muscles pulling as he struggles to breathe against gravity. “Tony?” His voice is weak, full of fear and confusion and Jesus, he feels like his body is on fire. _Why is everything on fire?_

“Right here, bud.”

“Wha’s goin’ on? Where’s May?”

“Still on her business trip. You’ve got a pretty high fever and your heart rate is through the roof. Gonna get you home and get both of them down, okay?”

“Did I pass out?” He closes his eyes in embarrassment because he knows he did, knows that he’s scared the shit out of Ned and Mrs. Benninger and MJ. 

MJ.

_Ugh._

“It’s okay, it happens. The important thing is that you’ve only got a small bump on your head. Nothing major.”

Peter grazes his hairline with his fingertips, coming up with nothing until he touches just above his ear. He hisses as he passes over a small lump.

“Got some ice for the road,” Tony says, placing the pack gingerly atop the affected area. “Happy’s waiting for us downstairs. Think you can sit up?”

Peter nods without thinking, the nurse appearing with a wheelchair. Peter wants to protest, but he barely makes a face. His head is pounding and he’s finding it hard to get enough air in, the change in his blood pressure as Tony helps him sit up making his head pound. If death was a feeling, he thinks, this is surely it. 

x

“Didn’t need to pass out on us to get our attention, Pete,” Bruce jokes as he listens to Peter’s chest again in the MedBay. Peter’s kicking himself for thinking Tony would bring him anywhere but here after fainting at school. They’ve got him hooked up to oxygen in the form of an annoying nasal cannula that’s making his nose itch and a misting nebulizer mouthpiece that only seems to be making him cough. He’s miserable, hates that Bruce made him put on a stupid gown and monitors to track his heart rate and oxygen levels. Peter lost count after the eighth vial of blood that was taken, each glance over having made his stomach flip. He knows he’s sick, has something brewing in his lungs, and hopes that within the next hour he can just hide away in his room doing breathing treatments and playing video games. “I’m thinking bronchitis because of the cough, but I’ll have Dr. Cho confirm with x-rays. Have you been taking your inhalers?”

If there’s one question he hates being asked, it’s how often he’s been taking his meds. Peter never asked for a spider bite to come along and change his life, one that not only gave him superpowers, but also an overactive immune system that just so happens to impact the simple act of breathing. He likes to think that anyone who actually knows what it’s like to have asthma would never ask that question so nonchalantly, and doctors, Bruce and Dr. Cho specifically, always feel privy to what feels like very personal information to Peter. But he knows he has to give it up. He’s not ready for Tony to learn that he’s just been spraying them into the air rather than breathing them in and dealing with the side effects, wishes he could crawl up into a ball beneath the scratchy white blanket over his legs and wait for everyone to leave to come back out.

He knows that isn’t going to happen, though, not with the way Tony hasn’t so much as smiled since he picked Peter up from school. He’s standing at the foot of the bed trying not to look stone-faced, but Peter can see the way his eyes are laser-focused on the monitors. On Peter. He can’t tell if Tony knows already, is angry or disappointed or scared, and it only makes Peter feel worse. He wants Tony to answer, wants him to reassure Bruce that FRIDAY has all of the data she needs to answer his question.

The room stays silent except for the beeping of the monitor and compressor of the nebulizer.

Peter pulls the mouthpiece out and swallows hard. “Not really,” he finally manages, closing his eyes. He wants to cry, but he’s not sure his lungs can handle it. At the moment, they feel like they’re about to shatter. Or burst. Maybe even both. Tears pool behind his closed eyelids, finally sliding from the edges and down his cheeks as he tries to keep himself composed. “I-I...I’m sorry. This is still new to me…and I don’t like how they make me so wired…” He takes a shuddering breath and continues with “Colleges look at your grades and the meds just…make my ADHD worse…and then when I’m Spiderman, it’s like I can’t get…my brain to think…and I was afraid that I’d fu-…sorry, mess up, and I really….really don’t want you to be…mad at me…’cause…’cause…” He’s run out of air, is trying to suck in whatever he can from the oxygen under his nose, but his lungs don’t seem to be taking it, feel full even as he tries to expand them.

Alarm bells from the monitors are sounding, and he almost doesn’t hear Tony ask, “Peter? Hey, stay with me bud,” from his bedside.

Bruce is raising the bed as he says, “I need you to relax, Pete. Can you try to do that?”

He wheezes in return, his hand gripping the blanket as he uses all of his last available energy to get one decent breath in. “Can’t breathe,” he whispers as he focuses on Tony, but instead it comes out as a long, painful, drawn-out wheeze. He’s sure his eyes are opened as wide as can be, can feel his shoulder muscles tighten, lungs itching to cough as he begs them to calm the fuck down because he’s not even sure he can get the trapped air out.

Peter’s had attacks, has been in this exact bed in MedBay with Bruce listening to his chest while he takes a breathing treatment, but this? This is something entirely new. He’s never felt darkness fill the edges of his vision like this, nor has he felt like he was drowning on dry land. Scared feels like too easy of a description to use, feels worlds away from whatever the fuck this is.

He’s mouthing, gasping, the word help over and over as Dr. Cho rushes in. Suddenly, there’s a mask over his nose and mouth, and he feels the IV as it’s inserted into his hand. He can taste the saline on his tongue and grimaces, but soon, he can feel his lungs loosening just a little, listens as the wheezes grow more sporadic. Tony pulls Peter’s hand from its grip on the blanket, his fingers relaxing as they’re held tightly. He tries to look over, but the mask tugs, the mist blurring his vision and ability to focus.

“Help,” he continues mouthing, because his voice just won’t work, but he’s not sure anyone can see behind the mist that must be a double albuterol neb because Peter’s heart feels like it’s about ready to beat out of his chest. It takes what feels like hours for his lungs to settle into a pattern of longer, deeper wheezes that fill the room. He hates the way it sounds like he’s a dying seal, how he can’t control them or keep them from sounding so horrible.

“Don’t let the wheezing worry you, Peter. Take a slow breath in,” Dr. Cho instructs, and Peter feels his shoulders slump in exhaustion as he prepares to take a careful and calculated breath. It feels a lot like tempting fate, and he closes his eyes as he does it, worried his lungs will still be just as locked as they were before. He’s surprised when he’s able to comply, can feel the cool metal disc of a stethoscope moving around the front of his chest and then his back as he keeps up the pattern of slow, controlled, but still painful breathing. “Definitely pneumonia. Left lung is collapsed. Can we get Sanchez in here with a portable x-ray? STAT?” she asks as she throws the stethoscope over her shoulders.

“Pneumonia?!” Peter’s saying beneath the mask, his breaths quickening, but Tony is shushing him, brushing his unruly brown hair out of his face with his free hand.

He barely notices that Tony’s got his IV-free hand gripped tight, is rubbing his thumb over his wrist as a means of comfort. “It’s alright, kid. Just some antibiotics and you’ll be good as new.”

“Collapsed?!” Peter croaks, the fear and frustration coming out in one, long wheezy sob, and then another. One of monitor alarms sounds, and then a second chimes, alerting everyone to his shitty lungs once again. He forces his eyes closed and lets the river of panic and embarrassment flood. 

“Pete, hey, hey, it’s okay. We’re gonna make this better,” Tony whispers, pulling Peter up and against his chest, warm arms wrapping around his body and rocking him back and forth. He adjusts the tubing from the oxygen and pulse ox and IV so that they aren’t stuck on the railing and pulling uncomfortably. “Relax, Underoos,” he whispers, continuing his rocking, and the nickname catches Peter off guard. He sniffles in the place of one sob, and then another, his breaths and wheezing erratic. “We need to get your breathing calm and your heart rate down.”

“I’ve gotta call Aunt May,” Peter says, leaning into Tony’s embrace, sniffling. “Gotta…let her know…’cause she’s gonna…worry…a-and…”

“We’ll call May. I’ll get Happy on that. For now, I just need you to rest. Get your mind to stop spinning.”

“But what if…what if I-” he asks into the mask, panting.

“You’re not dying, Peter,” Tony assures him, rubbing his back as he continues to rock back and forth, back and forth. “Shh. I know that was scary. I know, kid. I’ve been there. It’s not a fun place to be.”

“F-felt like it,” he whispers, not sure at first if he’s even said it aloud. The tears are still sliding down his cheeks and around the mask, pooling on his gown. He takes a sharp, painful breath in and immediately regrets it. The fast exhale leads into a coughing fit that’s got the monitor alarms going off for a third time. He pulls away from Tony, choking on the mucus that’s decided to work its way up and out of his lungs. The mask is pulled down around his neck and a basin is forced beneath his mouth as he spits out thick, dark green gobs. He’s gasping between coughs, the darkness returning to the edges of his vision, and then, just as quickly as the coughing started, it stops. 

Peter is hunched over, gulping at the room air for a moment before Tony refits the mask over his mouth and nose and guides him to sit up against the bed. He’s tucking him in, rubbing his arm as they wait for Peter’s heart rate and breathing to calm.

Tony stands when a man enters the room with a portable x-ray machine, Peter instantly grabbing for his hand. “Don’t leave,” he begs weakly, the last coughing fit from just a few minutes ago having taken every sliver of energy from his body. “Please don’t. I’m scared, Tony. I-I’m s-scared.” His eyes are glassy and welling with tears, the monitor showing an increase in his heart rate.

Tony bites his lip and holds back his own tears by looking up at the ceiling to compose himself. “Not going anywhere, Underoos. Just need to let them do their x-ray and then I’ll be right back here.”

“P-promise?”

“Promise.”

By the time the x-ray is finished, and the machine has left the room, Peter can barely keep his eyes open. Tony’s back at his bedside and he doesn’t sit until he’s made sure that the blankets are re-tucked and that the tubing and wires are untangled.

“Don’t feel so good,” Peter admits, and a pang runs through Tony, one only made worse by watching Peter struggle to breathe even with the mask, the usually high-energy teen propped tiredly against the bed, his face so pale he wonders if he might blend in with the pillows at any moment.

Bruce re-enters the room with his eyebrows knitted, and he and Tony have a wordless conversation with the shared hope that Peter is too out of it to notice how dire things have become.

“We’ve got him on a high flow of oxygen,” Bruce explains quietly. “But by the look of the x-rays, with his lung collapsed like this, we feel it’s best to go in and drain the fluid. Dr. Cho is preparing a team as we speak.”

“Go in?” Peter muses weakly from the bed. “Wha…what does that mean?”

“Peter, one of your lungs isn’t working properly because of the infection. Dr. Cho and I need to drain it so that you can breathe easier.”

“Surgery?” His heart rate rises slightly on the monitor, but he’s too tired to argue or even cry, and Tony turns in his chair to let a couple of tears fall, because how did he miss this? How did he miss the fact that Peter was getting sick to the point that he’d need surgery to correct it? “Tony?” Peter’s asking, his arm reaching out for his. “Tony, I’m scared. I d-don’t feel…well...and we didn’t call…May…and she’s t-travelling…for work…a-and…”

Tony wipes his own tears away and turns to be with Peter, biting his lip as he brushes Peter’s hair from his face. “I know you’re scared, Underoos. It’s normal to be scared. I was scared before my surgeries, too. But you have the best of the best here, and when you wake up, you’ll feel like a million bucks.”

“Aunt May?”

“I’ll call her personally, okay? I’ll make sure she knows exactly what’s going on.”

“Promise?”

Tony sniffles. “Promise, kiddo.”

“You’ll be here? When I wake up?”

“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he insists, and Peter smiles a little behind the mask.

Bruce pulls a syringe from the drawer of the med cart and approaches Peter’s IV line. “I’m going to give you a little something to relax you, Peter. You might get a little sleepy.”

“Tony?” Peter panics.

“Still here, bud.” Tony takes Peter’s hand and squeezes it, carding his fingers through Peter’s hair in soothing strokes. “I’ll always be here.”

It’s the last thing Peter hears before he drifts off, his body relaxing for the first time since he can remember.

x

Waking up is hard. Peter’s body feels like it’s been hit by a bus, and while his lungs feel markedly better, they still feel somewhat full and achy. And whatever is by his nose seems to be breathing with him. He tries to open his eyes, but the room is bright.

“There you are,” Tony says softly, and Peter can feel him brushing his hair from his face again. “Go ahead, open your eyes.”

“I can…breathe,” Peter remarks, blinking as his eyes adjust to the brightness. He likes that there’s no mask over his mouth and nose, which is what he’d been expecting. He feels freer, better, than he did, but he’s sure it’s just whatever pain meds they’ve got him on.

“Oxygen levels have improved. Your left rib area might be a little tender, so try not to lay on that side,” Dr. Cho comments as she goes to listen to Peter’s chest with her stethoscope.

Peter brings a hand up to whatever contraption is shoved up his nostrils and marvels at how it’s able to force just enough air into his lungs to help him breathe.

Between listens, Dr. Cho explains, “We’ve got you on a positive airway pressure cannula. It’s enough ventilation to aid your breathing without taking over entirely. You were working pretty hard to breathe earlier, and with the ventilator during surgery, we thought it’d be best to give you a little help, get your lungs healed up without stressing them further.”

“Aunt May?” he asks Tony, his eyes drooping with exhaustion.

“She’s trying to get here. Her flight was delayed out of Dallas due to a snowstorm in the Midwest. Why don’t you rest, kiddo? Get some sleep so you can be ready for when she gets here?”

“You’ll wake me?”

Tony debates the idea for a moment, worries that Peter not getting enough sleep is exactly what got him here in the first place, but finally, he says, “I’ll let her wake you, okay?”

Peter nods before closing his eyes and letting himself drift off once again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still beaming over the fact that this fic got 500+ views in 2 days! Thank you everyone for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting!
> 
> **Let me know your predictions, what you'd like to see in future chapters, questions, etc. in the comments! :D**

**Chapter 2**  
**Sunday, December 22**

May hasn’t slept since Tony called her on Friday afternoon. She’s used to the night shift and being awake for longer than should be humanly possible, but it’s different when it’s her Peter that’s thousands of miles away and sick enough to need surgery.

She’s had more than enough time in an airport, and then a hotel room, to worry. She’s been getting hourly updates from Tony, who she’s convinced is a saint because from the sound of it, he hasn’t left Peter’s bedside since he picked him up from school two days ago. She trusts Tony and Pepper, knows they’re the only reason she’s able to travel for her new job. May had been waiting to take an administrative position for a global nursing company for years, but Peter’s spider bite, and everything that came with it, had changed everything.

The sneaking out. The lying. The Snap. The battles and overall danger of being an Avenger as a teenager. All of these things had been enough to make her question whether Peter was ready for her to be away so often, but in the end, it was Peter’s asthma attacks that had kept her from taking the position.

Mostly, it was their tendency to happen at night, coupled with the fact that Peter wouldn’t talk to her about how he was feeling until he was wheezing in her bedroom doorway at 3 in the morning. Over fifteen years’ experience as an emergency room nurse, and May couldn’t help but feel absolutely shaken by the sight of Peter struggling for breath.

And then Tony had stepped in and assured her that he’d be happy to look after Peter when she was away, had the technology to keep an eye on him 24/7 and get his attacks under control. It hadn’t been an easy decision, nor a quick one, but in the end, May knew it was the right choice. It had to be, because _Peter_.

Three cancelled flights, two nights in two different hotel rooms, and finally, finally, she’s landed in New York. Tony’s sent a car for her despite her insistence that the AirTrain and subway would suffice, and she’s caved because she hasn’t slept, needs to see how Peter is with her own eyes before she lets herself get any ounce of sleep.

Dr. Cho called her personally to give her a general update full of medical terms and medication dosages, but it’s been Tony’s text updates that kept her from falling apart completely. _You raised quite the tough cookie, May_ and _I’ve never seen this kid sleep so much in my life. Didn’t think this was even possible_. The humor and care in his messages brought her to tears more than once, and she’d had to explain to more than one passenger and flight attendant that she was fine, that her baby was sick and she just wanted to be home with him as soon as she could.

She’s been let in by Happy, the driver who picked her up at the airport, and is advised to ask that the elevator take her up to the residence. May hasn’t realized just how apparent her sleep deprivation truly is until she sees herself reflected in the elevator panels. By the time she’s whisked up to the correct floor, it’s too late for her to fuss over her hair or wrinkled clothes, and as she steps out and walks quietly toward Tony and Pepper’s voices, she realizes, upon seeing them, that they, too, are just as disheveled and exhausted. Pepper, whose arms are crossed against her chest, has her blonde hair in a messy bun. Tony’s beard is unshaved, the front of his shirt rumpled. She watches quietly from afar, nervous to interrupt what sounds like an argument. She worries for a moment that something’s happened with Peter, but then she hears Pepper say, “You want to adopt Peter.” It doesn’t come out as a question, but a statement, and May’s first instinct is to pounce. _Adopt Peter?_ She’s suddenly not so sure what, exactly, their intentions are, what they’ve been, and she’s shaking her head, can feel tears stinging her tired eyes.

“I didn’t say adopt, did I? I said _guardianship_. Do you know how many laws we’ve probably broken in the last three days, Pepper? If Peter’s school had sent him to the hospital, we’d never have been allowed past the emergency room doors. We don’t have legal custody over Peter, yet because we brought him here to be treated, we’ve been able to make all of the decisions while May’s been away,” Tony rationalizes, and May feels her defensive walls fall. She’s not angry that Tony and Pepper have been making the decisions, has tried to keep the imaginative scenarios of Peter going to a conventional hospital out of her mind because she shudders to think of how they’d handle his unconventional genetics and chemistry. She hates to think that her exhaustion has sent her thoughts spinning toward the negative once again, that she’s doubted the goodness of the two people who have obviously been putting Peter before themselves while she’s been away. “If something like this were to happen again-”

“May’s not going to sue us, Tony.” Pepper puts a hand up and finishes his thought. “Let’s be realistic for a moment. Her and Peter signed paperwork when he became an Avenger.”

“You said the same thing about Hank Pym, remember? And look where we’re at now, sitting in ridiculous litigation for months,” Tony reminds her. “Besides, you’re missing the fact that the paperwork May and Peter signed refers to medical decisions made immediately following an injury sustained during active duty. Falling ill in chemistry class doesn’t exactly fit the criteria.”

Pepper sighs. “But it’s not our place to overstep and just assume we can sign a few papers and make him ours, Tony. I swear, if this is another one of your crazy, overeager ideas-”

“Just hear me out, okay?” he asks.

“Tony, if I’m being honest, I’m not sure I want to,” Pepper says, cocking her head. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” She’s stressed, tired, even, but Tony is too far into his head to fully notice.

“Well, if I’m being honest,” Tony interrupts, “I was expecting this conversation to go in a completely different direction.”

“Really?” Pepper raises her eyebrows and widens her eyes. “You thought I’d be entirely okay with stealing Peter out from under May’s nose and raising him as our own?”

“No, Pep, that’s not…” He sighs heavily and looks up at the ceiling. “You’re not _listening_ to me or a word-” A hand balls into a fist when Pepper interrupts again.

“It’s one thing to play mentor and pick him up from school when he’s sick, even take care of him while May is away, but this,” Pepper says, shaking her head. “I love Peter. I really do. I’m just not sure this is appropriate Tony. I don’t know if we can even handle having more responsibility over-”

“-a damn good kid who just happens to have web shooters and asthma?”

“This is more than asthma, Tony, and you know it.”

“I know that, Pepper, but I don’t understand why that matters so much to you!”

“Because you can’t just take May out of the equation! Peter’s her life, Tony. We can’t just _take him from her._”

“This isn’t about replacing May or taking him out of her life! You won’t even let me finish my sentences, for God’s sake, so how can I expect you to make any sense of what I’m trying to say?” He’s raised his voice, is two seconds away from crying out of exhaustion and fear and frustration. 

“Then what is it about, Tony?” she finally asks. “Tell me and I’ll say yes.”

“I don’t…I don’t know, Pep,” Tony says, throwing his hands up and shaking his head. “You’ve got my thoughts all jumbled up from interjecting.” He sighs and composes himself. “May was in a meeting when Peter passed out at school and I couldn’t get a hold of her, and then it took me an hour to get through to her again about the surgery…and I can’t help but think about what happens if we can’t wait on a decision. What happens if it’s just you and me and-”

Peter’s congested hacking and wheezy inhales steal his attention from Pepper, and in seconds he’s in Peter’s room, right at his bedside, his arms sliding under the teen’s tiny frame. “I gotcha kid,” Tony coos as he shifts Peter’s position against the pillows so that he’s more upright than slumped. Pepper stops in the doorway to check that he’s alright before heading to the kitchen for a much-needed cup of coffee, May inching closer to Peter’s bedroom once Pepper is gone, Peter’s frame coming into her view.

He lets out a few more coughs and tries to relax. “Hate this,” he pants in Tony’s arms, catching his breath.

He’s pale, his cheeks red from coughing and hair matted in every possible direction. May’s expected him to be on oxygen, but instead there’s a positive airway pressure cannula under his nose, and she realizes, then, that this is worse than she’s let herself believe it to be. Her heart breaks as she watches him try to lift himself up from the bed.

Tony gently eases him back down and puts the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead, frowning as he pulls it away. “Fever’s back.”

Peter laughs softly. “You know that’s not…an accurate way to…measure a fever, right?”

“Who says?” Tony asks in his usual dry sarcasm.

“Um, the…doctor’s association people?”

“Hmm. Sounds legit,” Tony deadpans.

“Sorry, I’m not…myself, Tony. S’hard to think. I-I promise I’m…smarter-”

“Was only joking, Underoos. I know you’re smart.” He gently ruffles Peter’s hair, getting a smile out of him. “Too smart for your own good, sometimes, but smart nonetheless.”

“Hey!” Peter protests playfully.

“Peter’s temperature is now 102.8,” FRIDAY announces. “Motrin and fluids are recommended to bring his temperature down.”

“See? Even FRIDAY agrees with my methods.”

Peter’s confused as he says, “You beat her to it. How?”

“Magic.”

“Really?”

Tony laughs. “No, kid. Wow, you really are out of it, huh? I got an alert twenty minutes ago on my watch that your fever was creeping up, was just waiting because it’s been only five hours since your last dose and I can’t have your liver going out on us now.”

Peter’s eyes widen at the mention of another organ going haywire.

Tony’s serious as he says, “Hey, not gonna let that happen, Pete. Promise.”

Peter’s not convinced, is suddenly thinking back to not being able to breathe in MedBay. He’s sniffling, a slight wheeze present as his breaths quicken.

“Peter?” Tony asks, trying to catch his eyes. “Look at me, bud. You okay?”

“N-no,” he finally answers, eyes turning glassy.

“You trust me, right? I wouldn’t let anything happen to you?” he asks, adjusting the BiPAP cannula against Peter’s face to make sure it’s snug but not too much so, Peter nodding as the tears start to fall.

“I just miss May,” he sobs softly. “S-she’s probably all…worried about me, t-trying to…get home and s-see me. D-don’t want her to...get s-scared. She’s not g-good with…this kind of s-stuff.”

Tony pulls a tissue from the box on Peter’s nightstand and wipes the tears from under his eyes. “She’s a nurse, kiddo. Nothing here she hasn’t seen before.”

“Different with me,” Peter says tiredly. “I think it’s…a lot for her. She does e-everything for me. Never for herself. Can’t…do this to her.”

“Well, even so, she can’t wait to see you. Happy texted that they’re on the way from the airport.”

“What if I’m asleep when…she gets here?” Peter worries until she steps into the doorway. “May!” Peter exclaims breathlessly.

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” she apologizes as she rushes toward his bed and pulls him into a too tight hug. It takes everything in her to loosen her grip enough for Peter to rest comfortably in her arms. “My flights kept getting cancelled.” The tears are falling already, her eyes meeting Tony’s as he gives a small, understanding smile and backs out of the room.

“It’s okay,” Peter promises. “I’m happy…you’re here.”

She cups Peter’s chin in her hands, one lifting to touch his BiPap cannula, and sniffles.

“It’s okay, May.” He pulls her hand down and into his. “It helps, and…Tony and Pepper have been…taking really good care of me.”

“I should have been here, baby,” she cries, wiping her tears with her sleeve. “I’m sorry I wasn’t. I’ve been worried sick about you since Tony called me.”

“You’re here now.” Peter smiles sleepily, May moving to lie beside him and pull him close. “Love you,” he says, and she can’t stop the few stray tears from falling.

“Love you too, baby,” she replies. 

“M’really tired, May,” he says, closing his eyes. 

“Get some sleep, alright?” she whispers. He’s out before she can even look over, his facial muscles relaxed and content. She’s glad to be here with Peter, and it’s not until an hour or so later, when she’s convinced herself that Peter’s okay enough for her to use the bathroom that she slowly creeps out of the bed and into the hallway.

“May,” Tony says softly, but his voice startles her, a hand flying up to her chest in panic. “How are you doing?” He’s placed a gently hand on her shoulder and his eyes are searching hers for the truth.

“I’m exhausted, but I’m glad I got to see Peter. I know he’s not well, that this is going to be one hell of a recovery, but I’m grateful for everything you and Pepper have done for Peter while I couldn’t be here. I can’t ever repay you for all of this, Tony. This is more than keeping tabs on our boy. This is above and beyond.” She goes to open her purse as she continues with, “I don’t have much right now, but if I could write you a check-”

Tony shakes his head. “You don’t need to do anything but thank us, May. Pep and I would have done it regardless. You know that.” She sniffles and nods, a hand coming up to her mouth as she tries not to cry again. 

“I’m supposed to be Peter’s caretaker, but with this new job, in trying to make enough money to get us where we need to be-”

“I’ve told you before, you’re more than welcome-”

“I can’t take your money, Tony,” she asserts as kindly as she can, sniffling. “I really appreciate you and Pepper looking after Peter while I’m working, especially with his asthma being so bad at night and all, but this is something I have to do for us. I promised Richard and Mary that I would provide for Peter the best I could.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you.”

“You raised one hell of a kid, you know that, May?” Tony says, his voice cracking as the exhaustion and worry from the last few days hits him. He’s sniffling himself now, holding back the tears threatening to fall. “He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah, he is,” she agrees.

“The only thing he’s been worried about the entire time was you. Kept asking for you, made me promise I’d call you at every turn.”

“But you were the one who was here, Tony. That counts, you know,” she explains, offering a smile. “Look, I don’t mean to overstep, but I heard you and Pepper talking. About adopting Peter. Or rather, _guardianship._”

Tony looks down and shifts his weight nervously. “I know how special Peter is to you, May. I know he’s your entire world and that not being here through everything must have been excruciating. I didn’t pose it to Pepper as a means of replacing you or taking him out of your life. We’d never do that.”

“I know I can’t be everything he needs right now. This weekend was a testament to that fact, and it’s killing me to know my not being here delayed his care. If he’s going to heal from this, he’s going to need consistency and attention, which I can’t do with my job situation right now. I would quit in a heartbeat, but I know that Peter would blame himself and feel guilty, which would make everything worse. I don’t want to keep asking you for things, Tony. It’s not right of me to ask you to take more legal responsibility for Peter.”

“May, I would do anything for you and Peter. Just ask, and it’s yours. You know that.”

“I do know, Tony, and I think that’s very generous of you. But this is me being selfish here. Peter has always come first, as he should, but right now I’m conflicted because I took on this job so that I could send him off to college without loans and debt, and now, here we are, trying to figure out how to get our boy healthy again so that one day he can go to college.”

They’ve been down the “paying for college” road before, May insisting that she be the one to provide the money for Peter. Tony’s hoping he can work in a scholarship somewhere to make it that much easier for them, but he knows now isn’t the time to bring it up.

“I think Peter needs you right now, Tony.” May’s looking down at her hands and biting her lip. “He needs 24/7 monitoring and care, and even if I was home for the next few weeks, it wouldn’t be enough. I think joint guardianship is a great idea. You know I’m never one to ask, but this is Peter we’re talking about. Our Peter, and-”

“You don’t have to ask May,” Tony says. “I have it all covered. We can sit down with our lawyers after the holidays if you’d like. When things settle down and Peter’s feeling better.”

“You are a very kind man, Tony.” She gives him a hug and lets out a slow breath.

“Just trying to do the right thing is all,” he says, hugging her back. “You know that you’re welcome to stay here, with the holidays and everything.”

“I appreciate that, but I should probably go home and shower, get some sleep. I have a feeling the next few days are going to be a whirlwind, and I want to make sure that I can be there for Peter.”

“I can have Happy drive you back to your place,” Tony offers, leading her to the elevator.

It’s not until Tony checks on Peter and crawls into bed himself that he feels the fatigue fully hit him. He goes to close his eyes, but hears Pepper ask, “You really care about him, don’t you?” He knows she means like a son, and all Tony can do is nod as his face crumples once again.

“I heard what May said, about the guardianship.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, and I agree with her. That Peter needs you right now. She’s trying, but with her work situation so difficult, I think it’s best that we keep Peter here for a while. I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you before.”

“This has been really difficult and exhausting for everyone, Pep. We’re all on edge and trying to take it day-by-day. I think we could all just use some sleep.”

“Sleep? What is sleep?” Pepper jokes, because when does Tony ever sleep? But Tony’s already out, is starting to snore, and she smiles to herself, can’t help but think she likes this overprotective Dad Mode Tony that she’s starting to see more and more of.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the kudos and comments, and a huge thank you to HDAnalyst for her hard work and making sure that this chapter is the best it can be! :) Please let me know what you think, favorite parts/lines, what you hope to see or think will happen next!

**Chapter 3  
Monday, December 23**

“Hey Pete, you ready to get up?” Tony’s asking with a yawn, but all the teen can manage from his place propped against the pillows and covered in his duvet is a groan. Pepper’s let both of them sleep in some, is off finishing last-minute holiday shopping for gifts and ingredients for their Christmas Day dinner. Peter’s been home for a full day now, has spent most of that time sleeping, Tony waking him every four hours to do a treatment, take some pills, and coax him into a lapse around the residence to get the mucus to loosen. Pepper’s made it her mission to get him to eat, but he’s barely managed toast, clear soup, and ginger ale due to the antibiotics. They’re not out of the woods yet, Tony thinks, but it’s starting to feel like they’re maybe half-way there. “Gonna switch you over to the oxygen and get you up and moving, okay?”

He’s already grabbed the tubing when he hears Peter answer, “No. Feeling…worse. Wanna keep the…the,” a hand coming up to touch his nose.

“BiPAP?”

“Y-yeah.”

Tony’s suddenly on edge. “FRIDAY, vitals, please.”

“Feels like I’m b-breathing…underwater,” Peter’s saying as FRIDAY drones in the background. He begins to cough, the rattling in his lungs audible, and Tony’s instantly grabbing for the small garbage can beside Peter’s nightstand.

“Gotta sit up, Pete,” Tony is saying as he pulls his slender frame up and away from the pillows, Peter coughing up and spitting out gob after gob of dark green mucus into the can between his legs. His weakened muscles shudder with each cough and then each inhale, the sudden ferocity of the coughing spell throwing him into an all-out panic. 

“M’drowning,” Peter manages weakly between a cough and gasp, his hand pushing away the tissue Tony’s trying to hold up to his mouth. 

“There’s been a sudden drop in Peter’s blood oxygen level,” FRIDAY reports, and Tony feels time slow as he watches Peter fight for air.

“FRIDAY, get Bruce up here, now! Send him all of Peter’s vitals from the last ten minutes.” He switches him from the BiPAP to the oxygen because somewhere in his brain he’s convinced that it’s what’s causing the issue, but Peter’s still choking even after he gets a few short inhales of the oxygen and Tony can’t get the dreadful rattling coming from Peter’s lungs to _stop_. 

“Dr. Banner has been alerted. Calculating his ETA.”

Peter reaches blindly for Tony, his hand absently landing on his upper arm, squeezing it with utter panic. He’s convinced he’s drowning, that the fluid in his lungs has turned to cement, that he’s going to die right here in Iron Man’s arms in Avengers Tower. He’s scared, like really _really_ scared, because it’s _happening_, it’s really _happening_. What transpired in MedBay just two days ago and seemed like the end of the world at the time was _so much easier_ than this, he thinks.

“I’ve got you, kid,” Tony says as he holds him up, trying not to let Peter see how terrified he genuinely feels. “I’ve got you. I know it’s really hard to breathe right now. Just do your best for me, okay?”

Peter tries to nod, but his shoulders are locked, his chest muscles straining, each breath hitching as he works to get the old air out and new air in.

“Dr. Banner’s ETA is 8 minutes, sir,” FRIDAY updates.

“Damnit, FRIDAY, that’s not fast enough! I need him here _now_!” Tony yells forcefully as he twists open two albuterol nebules with his teeth and squirts them into the medicine cup of the nebulizer.

“Tony? What’s happening?” Bruce’s harried voice fills Peter’s bedroom through FRIDAY’s relay system. It sounds like he’s running, his own, soft pants contrasting with the heavy thuds of his footfalls.

“Peter’s oxygen just plummeted. Said he felt like he was drowning and now he can’t talk or breathe.”

“Did you get him on the nebulizer?”

“Working on it. I need you here, Bruce!” Tony’s voice cracks as he switches on the nebulizer and holds it to Peter’s lips. “Breathe, Peter. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” He’s pulling Peter into his arms now, watches him struggle even with the oxygen and the nebulizer, his lips tinted with blue as he gasps and chokes. Peter’s locked his eyes on Tony’s, is begging him to help, to _fix_ it, and Tony’s heart sinks, because he feels absolutely helpless.

“I’m running as fast as I can,” Bruce assures him.

“FRIDAY, alert everyone nearby to an SME.” Tony’s voice is suddenly quaking, his eyes wide and alert, brain trying to think of next steps. Peter is no longer coughing, but his faint wheezes are starting to sound a lot like they did in MedBay, worse even, and Tony knows he can’t do this for much longer all on his own.

“I have alerted Mr. Steve Rodgers to an SME.”

Peter lifts a hand and grabs hold of Tony’s shirt, his knuckles turning white as he clings to him.

“I’m right here, Pete. I need you to be brave for me, okay?” he’s coaching.

Steve rushes in clad in pajamas, the sight of Peter in such a state throwing him directly into his military training. “What can I do?”

“Get Peter’s epi-pens. I think he’s too far into it for the nebulizer to work.”

“On it,” he replies, digging through the plastic bin Pepper gave Peter to organize his meds, and Tony closes his eyes and sends a silent thank you to Cho for not letting them leave MedBay without backup epinephrine.

Steve’s eyes graze over the pictorial instructions before he pulls the endcap off and tosses it to the floor, approaching Peter with it the second he’s sure it’s primed and ready.

“In his leg,” Tony instructs, and with a small apology directed toward Peter, Steve jabs it right into the teen’s thigh, holding it there as he slowly counts to ten before he removes it.

Tony resituates Peter in his arms, his body floppy and weak as he continues to wheeze, Steve bringing the nebulizer mouthpiece back to Peter’s lips.

“Come on, Underoos,” Tony is cooing softly as he runs his hand through Peter’s hair. “Almost there. You’re doing so good.”

And just as Steve asks, “Should I give him the second one?” Peter inhales sharply, a shaky but still strong gulp of air entering his tired lungs. He’s coughing and crying, but Tony can hear the power in them, can feel hot tears of relief sliding down his own face. The coughing is worse at first, a few more gobs of that dark green mucus appearing in the tissue Tony’s found on the bed and is holding up beneath Peter’s mouth, but soon, it slows, and Peter’s wheezing takes over the room. As Bruce skids to a stop in the doorway, Tony closes his eyes, his chin hitting his chest in respite. _He’s okay_, he thinks. _He’s okay._

“Take it easy,” Steve says, Peter reaching up to hold the nebulizer himself, Steve pulling his arm down so that it rests on the bed. “I’ve got it. Just keep breathing, alright?” He turns to Bruce and adds, “We used the epi-pen.”

“FRIDAY? Peter’s vitals, please,” Bruce is asking, but Tony can’t focus on her words, can only relish in the fact that Peter’s okay in this instant, is breathing, even if it’s not fully without support.

Bruce is scratching his head as he thinks and catches his breath, glancing over at the garbage can at the foot of the bed. “Was he coughing up some of the congestion before his oxygen level fell?”

Tony can only nod and sniffle, is still regaining his bearings.

“He probably had a few mucus plugs,” Bruce explains as he places the buds of his stethoscope in his ears and warms the disc with his hand. “Peter, slow breaths, okay?” he instructs as he places the disc under his shirt and listens intently.

“Couldn’t get it…out,” Peter’s whispering around the nebulizer, Steve and Tony shushing him.

Tony rests a hand beside Peter’s head and brushes his thumb against his cheek. “Gave us quite the scare there, Pete.”

“Heart’s jumping,” Peter comments, eyes squinting with discomfort.

“That’s from the epinephrine. It’ll go down soon,” Bruce explains. “Best thing you can do right now is relax, okay?”

Peter nods and looks up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling with even breaths of the medication.

“MedBay?” Steve asks Bruce, followed by, “I can carry him.”

“We should get Cho to look him over, keep him in observation for a few hours while we troubleshoot,” Bruce advises, but all Tony can do is tighten his hold on to Peter in his arms and weep openly because he almost just lost the kid. Even with all of the medication and equipment around them, it was _too damn close._

He knows because of the terror that’s still in Peter’s eyes, the same terror coursing through his own veins.

“Let me take him,” Steve offers, but Tony shakes his head and stiffens. “Tony,” Steve urges.

“I’m not letting him go,” he insists, sniffling, eyes still wide and body stiff from being on alert.

“Just wanted to give you a break, Tony, but I understand.” Steve’s voice is soft and smooth, and he places a hand on Tony’s shoulder in support.

“The faster we get him up there, the faster I can figure out exactly what’s going on,” Bruce explains.

Tony sniffles and nods, cradles Peter in his arms, bridal style, and rises slowly from the bed. He waits for Bruce to switch off the nebulizer and take the mouthpiece before Steve grabs the oxygen tank and tubing.

“We’ll figure this out, Tony,” Bruce promises as they approach the elevator, but Tony isn’t convinced, can only replay the last few terrifying minutes in his head over and over and over.

**Seven Hours Later**

“You’ve taken biology, correct?” Dr. Cho asks Peter as she takes a seat beside his bed in MedBay. Peter’s finally up and alert after sleeping the day away, can see that the sky outside the window is slowly shifting from yellow to the purple of dusk. He’s back on the BiPAP and he’s thankful, because breathing is exhausting, Peter’s decided, and the less he has to work to do it, the better. May’s been in and out all afternoon, but even Peter can see that she’s drained and needs to catch up on sleep. Tony’s refused to leave his side, and by the look of it, he hasn’t napped. “Peter?” Dr. Cho asks to refocus him.

“Yeah, in ninth grade,” he answers from his place on the hospital bed, but the question has him on edge, because whatever he’s about to hear, he knows it probably isn’t going to be good news.

“Your immune system is complicated due to the spider bite, Peter. You have to remember that although it gave you powers, it also altered your human chemistry and genetics. Essentially, the spider bite sent your immune system into overdrive. Your immune system mistakes some of your cells for harmful invaders and that’s why you’ve developed allergies and asthma after the bite. Your lab work from both Friday and today show that your eosinophil count is very high. They’re white blood cells that-”

“Fight disease, I know. You’re saying…my asthma isn’t just regular asthma?”

“Dr. Banner and I hadn’t initially considered this, but we have good reason to suspect that the reason your asthma is so difficult to control right now is because it’s eosinophilic in nature. The inflammatory response in your lungs is caused by a specific protein, or proteins, that are malfunctioning. We are working to target which cytokine, or cytokines, specifically. We believe it might be IL-5, or interleukin-5, based on the severity of sinus involvement and your allergies. The fact that we had to use epinephrine to manage your attacks on two occasions is indicative of how serious this situation is. The good news is that we have a list of biologic medicines to treat the underlying issue, so rather than throw inhalers, steroids, and epinephrine at it after the fact, I’m suggesting that we try weekly self-injections to be preemptive, and, if need-be, switch medications to treat whichever interleukin, or interleukins, are causing the autoimmune response.”

“Injections? Like...as in needles? By _myself_?”

“Just once a week, for now. We’ll see how you respond to the Nucala and follow-up with blood work. The good news is that we have multiple medications we can try, and we can play with the dosages, too, so it’s all about finding the right fit. We’ll have to wait until the pneumonia fully clears, of course. The Nucala is going to weaken your immune system while you’re on it, which is what we want it to do, but that also means you’ll be prone to anything infectious.”

Tony puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezes as a means of reassurance, but Peter can only focus on the fact that he’s about to need needles on a consistent basis and could get very sick even with the medication, which doesn’t make sense. The thought has him feeling dizzy, like the rug is being ripped from beneath his feet. “There’s no pill version? I-it has to be..._injected_?” He winces as he says the word.

“I’m afraid so,” Bruce adds. “Stomach acid would destroy the medication before it does its job. Your particular immune system is complicated, much more complicated than we could have imagined. We need to be ten steps ahead of this in the hope that we can avoid this severity of illness in the future. You’re still very sick, Peter, and we want to make sure we get you back to baseline so that you can return to school. We also want to make sure that we’re watching closely for other autoimmune disease symptoms. We have our team running other labs and Dr. Cho’s completing genetic testing to see where we’re at with all of this.”

Peter’s too stunned to speak, is trying to process everything that’s just been said, but all he can do is sit and stare.

Bruce clears his throat. “I’m proposing that we get you started on physiotherapy to clear some of the mucus sitting in your lungs, Peter, since you’re not very mobile yet. It’s a vest that helps shake everything in your airways loose. It’ll entail some more coughing, but it’ll keep you from acquiring so many mucus plugs like you did this morning and with your healing abilities, it might even help speed up the overall process.”

This is all supposed to be good news, because they’ve finally figured out why his lungs are rebelling, but for Peter, it feels like the worst thing that could ever happen after the worst experience of his life. “I...I don’t know about all of this. I-I was never...sick? Before…” he trails. The thought puts a lump in Peter’s throat as he tries not to cry. This is all too much, suddenly, the passing out at school and the non-stop attacks and nearly dying from choking on his own mucus. “I don’t want any of this?” he whispers, feeling small. “I’m…I’m really tired, Tony,” he says, looking over at him.

“I know, kid. I know.” He’s rubbing Peter’s shoulder and arm, trying to take all of this in himself.

“I’m going to check on the most recent labs,” Dr. Cho announces after noticing that Peter needs a minute, Bruce following her out of the room.

Peter’s weeping, his head in his hands before Tony can even look over. “This is the worst Christmas ever.”

“Peter,” Tony starts, moving to sit on the edge of his bed.

“It’s going to happen again,” he cries, his pale face and red cheeks streaked with tears. “It’s going to h-happen a-again...and I don’t want it to.” He drags in a breath and lets it out slowly as if he’s blowing out birthday candles, trying to calm himself down. “And now I have to do shots that are going to hurt like the epi-pens and can make me r-really s-sick.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, repeating the candle breathing. “I can’t be Spiderman like this, Tony,” he whispers. “I can’t help people if I can’t breathe.”

“You’ve had a really eventful day. Why don’t we get something to eat, watch a movie?”

“Who am I supposed to be if I can’t be Spiderman?” he’s asking, disregarding Tony’s suggestions. He’s hyperventilating now, struggling to catch his breath.

“Peter,” Tony says again.

“W-what if there’s a b-battle a-and-”

“Peter!”

“What?!” he yells, ignoring the pull in his lungs. “What do you e-expect me to say, Tony?” He’s crying with his entire body, shoulders lifting and falling as he works to inhale and exhale. “I’m not _me_ like this. I’m making everyone…w-worry about me and I don’t want this! I don’t…w-want this to be h-happening! I could have…I a-almost…”

Tony wraps his arms around Peter, tucking him in against his chest and rocking him as he sobs.

“I know, Underoos. I know that this has been scary and that you don’t want any of this to be happening,” Tony acknowledges.

“And it’s really hard…to cry with this…thing,” Peter weeps as he tries to pull the cannula from his face.

“Hey,” Tony warns softly, reaching for Peter’s hand. “You know you need it, kiddo.”

“I d-don’t,” he lies, letting his arm fall because he’s tired, too tired to cry and breathe and be upset, and it only makes him sob harder. “I just want to be…_n-normal_.” Peter chokes on the sob and nestles further into Tony’s chest, the hum of his arc reactor a steady constant that brings just enough comfort to lull Peter’s crying into sniffles.

“Normal is completely overrated anyway.”

“Is breathing?”

Tony thinks the kid has a point.

“I don’t get a choice in any of this,” Peter says, still sniffling. Tony can’t tell if it’s a question or statement, wants to think that maybe it’s both, because even as sick as he is, Peter is trying to be strong, wants to prove that he’s brave even though he doesn’t have to. Tony hates that he’s had to ask Peter to be brave for him, hates that he’s had to go through so much not only in the last year but also the last twelve hours. For a moment, Tony wishes it was him that was so sick instead, wants more than anything to take it away, and he knows it sounds cliché, but Jesus, watching the kid beg with his eyes for him to _fix_ it had thrown him completely into despair.

“No, kiddo, you don’t,” Tony says, resting Peter against his bed and pulling a blanket up and over him. “And I’m sorry. It’s not supposed to be like this, but I’m going to try and make it right. I promise that I will try my absolute best.”

“It’s okay if you can’t,” he whispers, closing his eyes to stop from crying. “Life just happens. That’s what May always says, anyway. Life happens, and you do…what you’ve gotta do to survive. Do you think she’s right?”

Tony sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You and May have been through a lot, Pete.” 

“So have you,” Peter replies.

“Maybe this is an unhealthy strategy, but I always went with being brave in the moment and dealing with the emotions later, which…isn’t exactly the best idea, but…”

“Is that how you got through Afghanistan?”

“Yeah, kiddo.”

With his eyes still closed, Peter says, “Guess we’re a lot more alike…than I thought.”

It’s not until Bruce enters the room with the physiotherapy machine and vest that Tony feels the anger fully take root. The anger that Peter has to be so sick right now, that he’s unable to stop everything awful that’s happening to him. Reluctantly, he helps Peter off of the BiPAP and into the physiotherapy vest, closes and adjusts the buckles, and watches as Bruce inputs the settings into the machine it’s connected to. 

“Feels funny,” Peter comments, his voice changed by the shaking of the vest. Within seconds, he’s coughing, face red from the force and effort as Tony holds a basin beneath his mouth, the dark green gobs from earlier reappearing.

Bruce starts a nebulizer treatment, promising that it will open his airways and allow for more of the congestion to come out, but Peter can only cry through the entire fifteen-minute process of shaking, breathing in the medicine, coughing, gagging, and gasping. He doesn’t ask for Bruce to turn it off or for Tony to make it stop, nor does he comment after it’s all done and the vest is off, and Tony’s concerned now, really fucking concerned, because this kid has gone through the absolute wringer in the last three days and he’s not sure how much longer he can sit here and feel helpless without losing it himself. He’s tried being positive and holding out for one more day, one more hour, one more minute, and he’s something beyond absolute exhaustion at this point.

Peter’s back on the BiPAP when it’s all over, face beet red from coughing, eyes closed with his head lolled to the left against his raised bed.

“You did so good today, kiddo,” Tony hears himself saying as he brushes Peter’s hair from his face.

“Yeah?” he asks, eyes still closed.

“Yeah.” He gives a small smile to keep from crying.

“Don’t have to…stay,” Peter says sleepily.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“Liar,” Peter jokes with a small huff.

“Alright, so maybe there’s places I’d rather be, but I wouldn’t want to go without you, kiddo. If anyone deserves a vacation, it’s you.”

“Cali,” Peter whispers.

“What was that?” he asks, tucking Peter in beneath the blankets.

“When this is all over, I wanna…see Cali.”

Tony chuckles, because of all the places Peter could want to go after all of this, he wants to go to _California_? The land of traffic, smog, and Disneyland?

“Wha’s so funny?”

“Nothing, kiddo.”

“You makin’ fun of me?”

“Nope, definitely not.” He switches the lights off in Peter’s room, the glow of the monitors inside and lights outside the window giving a faint enough glow that Tony can make out the fatigue in all of Peter’s features.

“So you’re…not leaving?”

“Not a chance in Hell.”

“Language,” he warns, but Tony can sense that he’s joking.

“After today, I think both of us can use whatever language we want.”

“Gonna quote you…on that,” Peter promises, his voice drifting as his body’s need for sleep takes over.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I hope you enjoy the fluff in this chapter! I know it's not even Halloween yet, but I couldn't resist posting another chapter. Thank you again to HDAnalyst for being a fantastic beta reader and giving the best feedback! Please comment and leave kudos! :D

_And sometimes I pray_  
_That maybe I will change_  
_Into who you think I am_

_Why do you keep reaching for my hand?_  
_Do you see something I can't?_  
_Why do you try to save me?_  
_This fate is well deserved_  
_I only make things worse_  
_Why do you try to save me?_  
-“Save Me” by Noah Kahan

**Chapter 4**  
**Tuesday, December 24 - Christmas Eve**

Peter finally feels well enough to shower (with help, of course, which he hates, but Aunt May doesn’t seem to mind, so he guesses it’s fine) and eat some solid food; Pepper’s made her infamous chocolate chip muffins, and he’s managed to eat the entire top off of one, which has earned him some relieved smiles from May. They’ve got him back on the cannula for continuous oxygen, but he’s happy to be on the living room couch, watching Netflix and going through the stream of unread messages on his phone while he waits for his next breathing treatment. Tony’s been tinkering in his lab, popping in to check on him here and there while Pepper and May make themselves busy around the tower preparing for dinner guests the next day. Tony’s argued against having people over at all, but Bruce thinks it’s a good idea as long as Peter stays on his med schedule and gets to bed at a decent hour.

After detailing a modified version of the last four days to Ned and reassuring him that he’s alive and well via text, Peter opens his conversation with MJ and pauses with his thumbs over the keyboard.

_You okay? Super worried about you_, she’s texted in every variation possible.

_Just a little chest infection, no big deal_, he responds, thinking that his text is the understatement of the century.

_You passed out_, she counters, an ellipsis appearing as she continues. _That’s not little._

_I’m sorry I missed your party_, he adds, deflecting from the obvious. _Wanted to be there._

_Wish you could have been. I’m having some friends over tomorrow afternoon to exchange gifts if you’re free._

Peter’s heart rate picks up, happiness flooding through him as he tries to think of a good response. And then he remembers the oxygen line under his nose and the way his lungs are starting to get itchy again as the four hours between his last treatment and his next tick by, and he feels his whole body deflate. There’s no way he’ll be able to go, the truth painful enough that Peter closes his eyes and rubs his face to keep from crying. He hasn’t had an opportunity to think about school and Ned and MJ, has been too sick to think about anything other than breathing, and all this does is invite in the fear of how he’s going to manage being Peter, being _Spiderman_, if this doesn’t get better.

Tony appears in the doorway, watching as Peter sniffles and reaches toward the giant box of tissues Pepper has left for him on the coffee table. “FRIDAY gave me a high heart rate alert. You doing okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, pulling the oxygen tubing down so that he can blow his nose. “Just FOMO.”

“FOMO?” Tony asks, perplexed as he sits down beside Peter on the couch.

Peter sighs, annoyed that he has to explain, and blows his nose before saying, “Fear of missing out.” He picks up the oxygen tubing and untangles it in his lap.

“Here, let me help,” Tony offers, but Peter swats his hands away and works at lining up the notches to his nose so that they’re comfortable.

“I can do it myself.” There’s a sharpness to Peter’s tone that Tony doesn’t like, but he doesn’t call him out on it because he knows what Peter’s going through. He’s been there, knows what it feels like to have your body betray you, can remember all too well the anger and denial of what’s happening to take over your every thought. He doesn’t want to take this time to work through everything away from Peter, especially not after the last few days. This time alone, albeit monitored by FRIDAY and those nearby, is important. But Tony also knows Peter needs to talk, that he hasn’t had an opportunity to other than to verbalize his panic, and he wants to give him space to do that, too.

“I told you I was fine,” Peter snaps at Tony’s continued presence.

Tony leans back and threads his fingers across his stomach. “Noted.”

“So…you can go, then.”

“Last I checked, this is _my_house.”

“And last I checked, I’m not allowed to leave, so,” Peter throws back.

“Touché,” Tony retorts, laughing.

“This wasn’t exactly my plan for Christmas break,” Peter admits as he plays with the edge of the fleece blanket May’s wrapped him in, and Tony can see the wall come down just enough to push. Gently, of course.

“And yet, you stopped taking your inhalers?” Okay, so maybe not as gently as he’d thought.

Peter’s jaw all but drops at the accusation. “What?”

“I know about the inhalers, kiddo,” Tony says, keeping his tone level. “Or rather, the fact that you weren’t taking them for the last two months.” Peter sits frozen on the couch, afraid to move or speak. He waits for Tony to continue, braces for the yelling and speech about responsibility to start. “While you were sleeping earlier, I had FRIDAY synthesize your health data from the end of August until now. Your heart rate goes up after you take Ventolin and interestingly enough, the small spikes in your heartrate all but disappeared in the months of November and December.” He grabs a couple of M&Ms from the coffee table bowl and pops them into his mouth. “You ever hear of Peak Week?”

“No?” Peter’s confused, isn’t sure he wants to have this discussion right now, but he also knows he’s stuck where he is, that he can’t carry his own oxygen tank without help. Tony’s trapped him, and he wants to resent him for it, wants to tell him to _fuck off_, but he holds back because he knows how much Tony’s done for him in the last few days, how much of a hassle and mess all of this has been, and as frustrating as it is to be forced into the conversation, he can’t help but feel like he deserves it.

“Neither had I. Apparently, the third week in September is prime for asthma attacks because ragweed is in full bloom.”

“My night attacks,” Peter says, remembering how he’d spent many nights in late September feeling like an elephant was sitting on his chest.

_“FRI-FRIDAY?” he’d wheezed, sitting up in his bed as he pressed his palm against the pain in his sternum. “Get Tony.”_

_“I’ve already alerted Mr. Stark to your condition. Help will be with you shortly.” He’d managed two puffs from his rescue inhaler before Tony had barged through his door and started asking FRIDAY for his vitals._

_“J-just came on,” Peter had tried explaining as FRIDAY rattled off his heart rate (138) and oxygen level (96). “Already did m-my Ventolin,” he wheezed before breaking into a coughing fit._

_“Peter?” Pepper had asked from the doorway, still pulling her robe on. “You okay, honey? FRIDAY said-”_

_“He’s okay, Pep, just a small attack,” Tony explained as he pulled Peter’s nebulizer from his desk, where he usually did treatments after school, to his nightstand. “Why don’t you get back to bed?”_

_She’d pulled her robe tighter and crossed her arms against her chest. “You sure? He sounds awful.”_

_Peter’s coughs quickly turned into dry heaves from their sheer force, but Tony was just in time with the nebulizer mouthpiece, and after a few breaths of the medicine, Peter’s coughing had ceased, his breathing starting to even out. “I’ve got it under control. Go back to bed. I know you’ve got that early meeting tomorrow.”_

_Pepper debated staying for a moment, the sight of Peter so ill preoccupying her emotions, but when he gave her a thumbs up and a small smile, she let out a small laugh._

_“M’okay, Pepper,” he’d stated, voice gravelly from sleep and medicine. “Promise.”_

_“Have FRIDAY wake me if you need to, okay?” she’d asked._

_“Will do,” Tony had assured her. Once she was out of earshot, Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “We’ve gotta get ahead of these, kiddo. This is your second attack this week. You trying to give your old man gray hair?”_

_Peter had scrunched his face and pulled the mouthpiece out. “You already have gray hair,” he’d reasoned, and Tony had just chuckled._

“And you know what FRIDAY told me this morning?” Tony continues.

“That Peak Week is at the end of September?” Peter guesses.

“That you’d had a series of night attacks in both the spring and fall when your allergens were at their peak.”

“She…predicted my attack? After it happened? That’s not really that impressive.”

“She’d noted a seasonal pattern,” Tony corrects, “which I’d coded her to do, and then it just so happened to be that right after that, I’d listened to my morning news stream. That’s where I heard about Peak Week. FRIDAY couldn’t close the gap between the two data points, but my brain did. If we’d had that information in advance, we might’ve been able to get you on higher doses of steroids before you had your attacks, before Peak Week had even begun.”

“But steroids affect my Spidey senses,” Peter whines.

“And they also help you breathe?” Tony counters, shaking his head. His tone shifts from soft to authoritative, and Peter looks down because he knows what’s coming. “Peter, we’ve talked about this before. Breathing comes before Spiderman. Always.”

“I know, I know. It’s just…that was the week that I saved those people stuck in the cable car over the East River.”

“And?”

He sighs. “And I wouldn’t have been able to do that if I was on the steroids!”

“Slow down, Atlas. You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders,” Tony reminds him. “You’ve got the rest of the Avengers team to be there when you can’t.”

Peter gives another sigh. “I know.”

“You know, and yet you stopped taking your inhalers during the time of year when you’re most likely to get a chest infection.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back on the couch, his arms getting tangled in his oxygen tubing as he goes to cross them. “Keep reminding me!”

“Peter,” Tony says, leaning forward. “I know the high doses of steroids are making you moody, but do you understand what we’re up against here? Because I’m getting the sense that you don’t, which is truly hard for me to believe after everything you’ve been through these past couple of days.”

Peter sighs and keeps from rolling his eyes a second time; just because he doesn’t want to have this conversation doesn’t mean Tony won’t have it with him. He’s learned this, _knows_this. He loves Tony, but sometimes, he thinks, he acts too much like a _dad_.

Tony takes a deep breath and sets his jaw. “You have a chronic illness from a life event that’s both blessed and cursed you, and if anyone understands exactly what that feels like, it’s me. I’ve been in your exact shoes before.”

“I know, I know. Your arc reactor. Afghanistan. I just feel like this is different, Tony. You don’t have to worry about breathing!”

Tony huffs and pulls his shirt up, revealing the glow of his arc reactor. “Have you ever heard of cardiac asthma?” he asks.

“No?”

“Imagine that your airways fill with fluid and you can’t stop coughing and wheezing,” he says, gesturing at his chest. “Can you imagine that? Because I lived with it every day before I had my new arc reactor placed.” He pulls his shirt back down. “And I lived with it after, when the shrapnel around my heart was jostled loose. Why do you think Bruce stocks so much albuterol in MedBay?”

Peter huffs. “Is this your way of making me feel worse about all of this? I know it’s my fault that I’m sick right now!” he yells, pointing at himself. “So can everyone stop reminding me?! Please?!”

“I need you to understand that you can’t always do what you want in the moment, because if you do, it starts taking its toll on your future health, Peter. You need to learn to balance the things you can control with the things you can’t.”

“I don’t have any control over this right now, or anything else in my life, so I don’t know what you want me to do!” Peter yells, putting his head in his hands.

Tony takes a deep breath and puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter sniffles, his lip trembling as he uncovers his face. “Why are you doing all of this?”

“All of what?”

“Taking care of me and spending time in your lab synthesizing my data and making me feel like I deserved all of this?”

“You didn’t deserve this, kiddo. I’m being tough on you because I care. And I promised you I’d do my best to make this better, keep this from happening again. You need someone to look out for you right now, Peter. You’re too sick to do this all on your own. It’s going to take some time for you to get back on your feet, but you’ve got a lot of people rooting for you.”

“I know,” he says, sighing. “It’s just that my brain feels like…scrambled eggs right now from the meds. It’s just…hard is all. All of this is hard and I feel like…like maybe I wasn’t meant for any of this superhero stuff…because it’s obvious I can’t handle any of it. I’m not like you, or Steve. I don’t…I’m not _strong_.”

“Not strong? Peter,” Tony says, chuckling, pulling Peter in close. “Are you kidding me, kid? Do you have any idea how _brave_you’ve been?”

“I sobbed like a fu-sorry, _freaking_baby,” Peter explains, sniffling, “and I keep crying even though it just makes it harder to breathe. I’m so tired of not…being able…to breathe.” He’s gasping at the air around him again, but he knows he just needs to wait for things to calm down, just needs a few even breaths to get him there.

“Pete-”

“Jus’…give me a second,” he wheezes, taking a few slow breaths with his eyes closed. “I just don’t get…why it has to be me,” he finally admits. “I wouldn’t wish this…on someone else, but why me? How am I supposed…to be Spiderman…like this?” He sucks greedily at the air from the cannula and gestures to his oxygen tank.

“You don’t have to have all of the answers right now, Pete. You can take your time with this.”

“How long, though? What if I can’t…be Spiderman?”

Tony’s silent for a moment.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Peter groans in response.

“There’s no one right way to live with this, kid. It’s going to take time to heal, and that’s okay. You don’t have to like it, but you do need to start taking your meds and staying on top of your symptoms.”

“What if the medicine keeping me alive…makes it impossible for me…to be Spiderman, though?”

“Again with that question? I thought I answered that.”

“But you didn’t answer!”

“I did answer it. Remember our chat on the rooftop? About how if you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it?”

“I just wish I could ignore all of this! No one else in the Avengers has anything like this!”

Tony lifts his shirt up to reveal the arc reactor. “You think it’s easy to ignore this and everything that comes with it? Have you spoken to Steve about his asthma before the serum? Because-”

“No, but-”

“You have to decide how you’re going to live with your asthma. Dr. Cho and Bruce can’t decide for you, and neither can I. Only you, bud.”

Peter lets out a frustrated groan and raises his voice. “That sounds insanely cliché and unrealistic and it _completely ignores_that fact that I have to do injections and can’t be Spiderman if I’m on meds that weaken my powers!”

“How realistic does me instilling the fear of God into you if you don’t start taking your health seriously sound?” Tony’s gritting his teeth in irritation, can feel his blood pressure rising. “Because I’m about two seconds away from that conversation, and trust me, Peter, you are not going to like the consequences that come with it!”

“Please don’t!” Peter begs, backing down. “I-I know that what I did was wrong, Tony. I _know_that I deserved this-”

“You didn’t deserve this, Peter,” Tony says, sighing and shaking his head, because where did that anger just come from? “But you _did_do something stupid and it landed you where we are now. I’m just glad it happened while you were close to home and not while we were away on a mission.”

The room goes quiet and Peter looks down at his hands, because he hasn’t considered this fact. His asthma’s affected his performance on missions, but it’s always been minimal, a couple of puffs here, a breathing treatment upon returning to the Tower and some Benadryl there. He’s never hampered the team’s ability to defeat the villain or perform, and he’s suddenly understanding why Tony feels responsible for everything that’s gone down. An emotional Tony on the rooftop that day saying, _If you die, that’s on me_, reverberates in his head.

“You know, I’ve been working on an algorithm and some coding that will hopefully fix the data gaps FRIDAY and Karen couldn’t piece together,” is Tony’s peace offering. He doesn’t want to fight with Peter, not about this, or at least, not right now. He wants Peter to look to him as an anchor of strength, a rock to cling to while he weathers this shitstorm that is his is lungs full of fluid and inflammation even if Tony also feels like he’s breaking into a million pieces. “I want the AIs to be able to continuously track allergen levels and air quality, along with your temp, heart rate, and oxygen levels to predict when you’ll have symptoms.”

“That’s why you’ve been spending so much time in your lab today?”

“What, you thought I was being overbearing and going through your data to find out your secrets?” Tony chuckles.

“Maybe? Yes?” Peter says, afraid that Tony won’t like his answer.

“Well, kid, I’m offended that you thought I was spending Christmas Eve trying to catch you in the middle of a lie rather than keep you breathing, but I digress.”

“No, I…that’s not what I meant, I just…didn’t think it’d be possible to get ahead of this. I’ve just been trying to…live with it for the last year and…I don’t know, I guess I figured it was one of those things that would always be…reactionary? Is that a word?”

“Ah, so the SAT prep course is working.” _More like time with MJ after school, but sure_, Peter thinks. “What’s really on your mind, bud?” he asks, pointing at Peter’s cell phone. “You’re clutching that thing like it’s the only thing keeping you going.”

“Just my friend. Friends, I mean,” Peter corrects quickly.

“A girl, huh?”

“No, ugh,” Peter groans, falling back into the couch. “Fine. It’s just that I had this whole plan to talk to MJ. See if maybe she liked me too.”

“That was the party you wanted to go to on Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“And then…”

“Yeah.”

“I see.”

“And she can’t see me like this, because then she’ll never ever talk to me again.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Um, the fact that I’m wheezy even on oxygen? And need to use my nebulizer like clockwork? How is that…not grounds for scaring someone away completely?” Peter’ asks, confused.

“If it was your friend in your place, would it scare you away completely?” Tony poses.

“No, but,” Peter says, trying to think of an excuse, sighing when he comes up with nothing. “Fine. Can’t I just be self-conscious? It’s bad enough that everyone’s coming for dinner tomorrow and I look like a Victorian child sick with influenza who won’t make it through the winter.”

“Cheeky, but also, not funny, Peter,” Tony quips.

“Hey, you’re the one who told me the other day that I wasn’t dying!” Peter jokes.

Tony’s eyes are suddenly watering, his jaw shifting left and right as he looks down.

“Wait, you really thought…yesterday, with the epi-pen…” Peter starts, staring in disbelief.

“Yeah, kid, I actually thought you might,” Tony admits. Peter can feel his heart ache as he watches Tony press his fingertips beneath his eyes, his hands folding together over his nose as he cries. “I know I’m not your dad, Pete, but it hurts to see you like this. You’re too good to deserve any of this.”

“Hey, I’m okay,” he promises, scooting closer so that he can wrap his small arms around Tony’s big frame. “It’s okay, Dad,” Peter says without thinking, and as he goes to take it back, Tony pulls him against his chest, rubs his arm and lets him rest there, the hum of the oxygen tank and Tony’s sniffles the only sounds in the room. “I didn’t mean,” Peter begins nervously, but Tony interrupts.

“It’s okay,” Tony says, sniffling. “I didn’t mean to be so hard on you before, Pete. I see a lot of myself in you and I want the world for you. Can you understand that?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t think I’m some crazy loon?” he jokes with another sniffle.

“Nope,” Peter replies convincingly.

“How come?”

“Because you picked me up from school and stayed with me on Friday.”

“I’m your emergency contact when May is away.”

“Yeah, but you could have gone to your lab or a meeting or something instead of staying with me, and you didn’t. And then you stayed with me last night, when I was scared and convinced I was dying, and you made sure I wasn’t alone. That’s...not something you had to do for me.”

“It was definitely something I had to do for your, Peter. I wasn’t going to just let you go through all of that by yourself.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Peter says, yawning. He’s feeling tired again, the crying and arguing having worn him out.

“For what?” Tony says, matching Peter’s yawn.

Peter’s closing his eyes, letting the whirring of Tony’s arc reactor and steady breathing quiet his mind. “Everything? Always being there? Even before this,” he says sleepily, closing his eyes.

“You got it, Underoos,” Tony says, and even though his arm is somewhat scrunched against the back of the couch, his leg jutting off at an odd angle that’s giving his foot pins and needles, he refuses to move from his sitting position, wouldn’t change a thing right now, because Peter’s called him Dad, sees him as more than just an overbearing guy in charge of his internship or being his emergency contact when May’s away, and he’s not sure what to feel.

_It’s okay, Dad_.

Tony lets the tears well up and fall, but for the first time in days, they’re _happy_. He closes his eyes and thinks about his gift for Peter, the one he’s been planning for months, the one he’s had to make changes to all morning, and wonders if it’ll be enough after everything they’ve just been through. He wants so badly for it to be enough.

Nearly an hour later, Pepper pops in to check on Peter and finds that both he and Tony are sleeping, the two sitting up against the back of the couch with Peter slumped against Tony’s shoulder and chest. She’s snapping a picture of them with her phone before she can stop herself, is careful not to wake them as she dims the ceiling lights so that the tree is luminous in the corner of the room, thankful that, for now, everything is quiet and calm. She takes a deep breath and crosses her arms in the entryway, thinking that maybe this Christmas won’t be so bad after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I know some of you have been asking if I have a day of the week I post on. Currently, I do not. I'm chronically ill, work full-time, am doing post-grad work, have other professional commitments that require frequent travel, and write when I can. My goal has been to post once every 2 weeks and so far, I've met my personal goal. As December rolls around, I can't promise to stick to that, but I will do my absolute best. THANK YOU for the comments, kudos, subscribes, bookmarks, etc. They absolutely make my day and keep me motivated to write! :)

**Chapter 5**  
**Wednesday, December 25, Christmas Day**

Pepper has a spread of coffee, May’s infamous cinnamon rolls, and an assortment of cut fruit out on the coffee table in the living room on Christmas morning. Peter’s done the physiotherapy Bruce recommended and his morning breathing treatment, is glad he’s getting some of what he’s termed “cement” out of his lungs, especially since it likes to build up overnight, which makes mornings particularly rough. They’re all still in pajamas even though it’s nearly eleven and guests are due to arrive around three, but no one seems bothered, the fatigue from the last few days lingering in the air. Tony has a virtual fire going in the fireplace with real crackles and heat that fills the room, the mood joyful and relaxed.

Peter is glad that May stayed the night, is sitting on the couch next to him while they enjoy brunch and presents. He’s gotten more than enough punny science t-shirts and socks from Pepper and May to last him a lifetime, and while it’s annoying to be tethered to his oxygen tank, he can’t deny that he’s feeling worlds better than he was. He watches as Tony opens his first gift, a 2019 slang dictionary.

“Really, kid?” Tony asks, laughing.

“I made sure FOMO was in there. You know. Just in case you forgot.”

“Cute, Peter. Real cute,” he jokes.

“This is the real gift, though,” Peter says as he hands over a slender wrapped box. “It isn’t much, but I thought you might be able to put it in your lab.”

Tony unwraps the paper and unboxes a sleek digital picture frame. When he turns it on, bright, vivid images come to life, fading in and out as a slideshow plays. There’s a photo with Natasha, Steve, Clint, and Bruce holding up peace signs on the living room couch, and one of Thor in the kitchen, smiling as he holds up a pan full of flames. There’s a picture of Peter scrunching his nose as Pepper wipes schmutz from his face with a tissue in the hallway before this year’s homecoming, and one of Peter with bedhead at the kitchen island eating a bowl of cereal and putting his hand up to avoid having his photo taken. And then there’s a picture of Tony and Peter working together in the lab, the two deep in thought, foreheads tense and gears turning as they tinker with a small electronic device. It’s followed by a tired Tony quizzing Peter for decathlon at the dining room table, and then one of Peter sleeping with his oxygen line, his head against a sleeping Tony’s shoulder, the two haphazardly sprawled on the living room couch with the faint glow of Christmas lights illuminating their calm, relaxed features. 

Tony isn’t sure why he’s tearing up all of a sudden. He’s not one to cry, especially not during happy occasions like Christmas morning surrounded by family, but having Peter give him such a thoughtful gift feels really special.

“Kiddo,” he says, his voice cracking, and Peter’s there in an instant, wrapping his arms around Tony’s neck and squeezing him tight. Tony squeezes back to keep the tears where they are.

Peter pulls away, smiling. “Pepper took the last few pictures. She saw me trying to wrap your gift and asked if I wanted to add them. You know, you’re actually really hard to buy for,” Peter jokes.

Tony laughs, wiping a stray tear away before he grabs two boxes from under the tree. “This isn’t really a gift, so I didn’t wrap it, but you’re probably going to need this to enjoy your real gift.”

The first box in Peter’s hand is the size of a tissue box, and on the front is a picture of a small white and green handheld nebulizer. He crinkles his face in embarrassment because _really Tony?_ But then Tony hands him another box with the biggest grin on his face, and Peter feels the humiliation melt away, because a portable nebulizer probably means that his gift involves traveling, and suddenly, Peter’s excited.

“Are we going somewhere?” Peter asks as he rips the wrapping paper off, opening top flaps of the box.

“Maybe,” Tony singsongs.

Peter’s eyes go wide as he looks down into the box. “Oh my God, are these Disney tickets?!” He’s holding the two tickets in his hand, examining them closely before looking up at Tony with the biggest smile.

“Maybe,” Tony repeats with a laugh, and before he can say anything else, Peter’s colliding with him and nearly knocking him over, his arms wrapping around him in another hug.

“Thank you!” Peter’s repeating.

“Of course, kiddo.”

“Is this…an itinerary?” he asks, picking up the folded paper that’s fluttered to the ground.

“Yeah, but we can always play it by ear, go off schedule if you’d like. I figured we could do Disney and then stay in Malibu for a few days.”

“May?” Peter’s asking as he turns to look at her. “Please? Can I go?”

She smiles. “Tony and I already discussed it. You guys have fun, okay?”

“Yes! When do we leave?!”

“February break.”

“Ugh, that’s so far away!” Peter moans.

“More than enough time to get you in shape for all of the walking Disney entails,” Tony explains.

_“Kid needs his confidence back,” Tony recalls himself saying to May in an attempt to sell the trip a few days ago._

_“Disney’s too expensive,” May had replied. “I can’t let you pay for that on top of everything else you’ve done, Tony.”_

_“Well, good thing I’m loaded,” he’d joked before realizing that May was having none of his usual Tony Stark bullshit. “In all seriousness, though, I think he needs this. He asked if we could go to Cali when all of this was over. It’s the only thing he’s asked for through this entire ordeal and I think it might keep him motivated to stay on top of everything this time.”_

“But Tony, what if...what if it happens again and I can’t go?” Peter’s face falls as reality sets in.

Tony puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We’ll deal with whatever comes, kiddo. If we really can’t go in February, I’ll reschedule for spring break.”

“I-I don’t know.” He’s suddenly nervous and biting his lip with anxiety. “You planned all of this and I don’t want it to go to waste.”

“We still have time to get you better and on the right combination of meds. Hell, I bet you’ll be ready to climb mountains by the time we leave.”

“Language,” Peter jokes.

“Thought we threw that rule out the window a couple of days ago,” Tony says, smirking. He pats Peter on the shoulder again and sighs. “You’re allowed to look forward to this, Peter,” he whispers.

He knows he needs something to look forward to, something that isn’t school or extracurricular activities. When he’d mentioned Cali, he was thinking of warmer weather. Of beaches and the California Science Center and Griffith Park and the Wilson Observatory. But Disney? Disney changes things, makes him want to look forward to running through the parks and enjoying rides like a child with reckless abandon.

He just needs to get the running part down.

And the breathing to do the running.

By February.

Which is never going to happen.

The excitement for the trip grows and fades like the virtual fire Tony’s conjured over the next half hour. He’s quiet as the rest of the gifts are opened, tries to act grateful and spirited for everything that Tony and Pepper have done for him, but on the inside, Peter feels like he’s crumbling, like the true panic and fear of his reality are taking root and he can’t do anything to stop it.

Because Peter doesn’t want to look forward. It’s not even about being _allowed._

He has two months, which feels like forever compared to the last few days, but it also feels like it’s not enough time, because deep down, Peter is starting to prepare himself for never returning to his baseline. His rational side has taken over, has already put the pieces together and is letting it sit. He’s done some research since his diagnosis of eosinophilic asthma, and phrases like “difficult to control with standard medications” and “patients can experience a decrease in lung function over time” haven’t exactly helped to calm his anxiety. He knows that autoimmune means _forever/_, that the injections he’ll start aren’t exactly a cure, that those are forever, too, and they can come with their own set of issues, some of which are “sparking other autoimmune conditions” and “cancer.”__

_ __ _

_ __ _

And while he knows not taking his inhalers consistently for two months didn’t cause this, he almost wishes that it had, because that would mean that he could go back and do all of this over again from the beginning.

He’s starting to wish he could go back even _further_, undo the stupid spider bite that, as Tony’s put it, has been both “a blessing and a curse.”

Because right now, none of this feels like a blessing, even though he knows he’s lucky in so many little ways, and he hates himself for it because Peter Parker is _not_ an ungrateful person, has been raised to “take it or leave it” and to believe that “you get what you get and you don’t get upset” as May has always said, and right now, he just wants to be able to leave all of this behind, is willing to give up being Spiderman just to go back to normalcy.

To _breathing._

He curls up on the couch and ignores May’s repeated insistence that he eat another half of cinnamon roll, lets his eyes close as he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch down and over his shoulders. He doesn’t sleep, just lets his body rest while he listens to the adults talk, to Tony talk, and he’s suddenly struck by a moment of FOMO.

A world without the spider bite and becoming Spiderman means a world without asthma, but it also means a world without Tony as his mentor, and while Peter would still trade all of it for normalcy in a heartbeat even if that meant losing his relationship with Tony, he knows that, in reality, he can’t. That the choice has already been made for him.

“This can’t possibly be comfortable,” May says, and Peter feels the cushions sink as she sits down, feels her hand on his back.

“S’fine,” he mumbles, not wanting to move, because suddenly everything is taking a lot more effort than he wants to admit to. Keeping his eyes open, staying awake, even breathing, is starting to get hard again, and he knows he needs meds and a nap if he’s even thinking of attempting dinner.

“You look shot, Peter,” May comments, and Peter opens his eyes to that, makes a face and groans. “Come on, I’ll help you to bed.”

“Don’t wanna move.”

“Up,” she commands, helping him up and off of the couch until she’s steadying him, one arm beneath his armpit while the other grips the oxygen.

By the time she’s got him situated in bed, Peter is panting and wheezy, has his head back and eyes closed as he wills the dizziness away. The back of May’s wrist stops at his forehead, and then at his cheek.

“Your fever’s trying to fight its way back, not that that’s a bad thing. It’s about time for your pills and a treatment. I can make you some pastina soup so they don’t bother your stomach, would you like that?”

“Are you gonna make me rub Vicks all over my chest, too?” Peter complains, but then his eyes meet May’s, sees how red and tired they are, and he apologizes. “Sorry, May. I know you’re trying to make me feel better, I just feel really crappy right now.” He gives a wheezy exhale that was meant to be a sigh. “Felt like I was doing better.”

“We just have to take it one day at a time,” she reminds him, tucking in the sides of his blanket. “How about we focus on being Peter right now instead of Spiderman?”

“Not funny, May.”

“Really? I thought it was pretty funny,” she says, smiling as she pats his leg. “So, how about that soup?”

Peter catches his breath. “Soup sounds…great. Thank you, May. And…I’m sorry I keep making you worry.”

“It’s my job to worry about you,” she asserts, but her attention is focused on his wheezing, remembers how he came home from school one afternoon and couldn’t get a full sentence out without making the same, awful rasp. She’d noticed as he was grabbing a bowl from the cabinet.

_“I got a 105 on my math test because I…found an error in the question, fixed it, and…solved it,” he’d explained, walking to the fridge. “Mr. Hedges…he was really impressed, so he gave me an extra…5 points.”_

_“Are you wheezing?” she’d asked, face twisting in concern as she placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him._

_“Just ran from…the subway,” he’d answered, pulling the milk from the top shelf and closing the fridge door as he shimmied out from under her grip. “I’m fine, May.”_

_“Sit,” she’d instructed, forcing him by his shoulders to park himself at the kitchen table. Peter put the milk down and rolled his eyes. “Stay,” she’d added, leaving him only to return with her stethoscope in hand._

_“Told you I was…fine. And I’m not a…dog.”_

_“So fine you can’t even get a sentence out? Breathe normally.” She’d placed the buds in her ears and pressed the disc against Peter’s back, and while she knew what was coming, she wasn’t prepared for the extent of the whistling going on inside his lungs. She’d moved the disc around and listened closely to be sure, asking him to breathe deeply, which caused a coughing attack that lasted longer than she knew was normal._

_“I can’t get sick,” Peter had insisted once he’d stopped coughing and she’d put the stethoscope down. “I have powers.”_

_She put her hands on her hips. “Peter, how long has this been going on?”_

_“A week? I don’t know.” Peter had run a hand through his hair, the wheezing intensifying. “Wasn’t that bad…’til now. Chest is kinda…tight. Feeling…dizzy.”_

They’d spent the evening in the emergency room waiting for Peter’s oxygen levels to normalize, and May remembers the weeks after, how Peter would wake her up with his coughing down the hallway, how the school nurse had called and explained that she needed to come and pick him up because his peak flow was on the low side and he seemed like he was getting a cold.

And then she’d gotten the promotion. She figured it’d only be a couple of months of travel in the beginning, but then she’d been promoted, and traveling became her full-time job.

She was in Salt Lake, 2,000 miles away and two hours behind New York time, when she’d gotten the panicked call from Peter after school that his inhaler wasn’t working, and she’d managed to piece together what he was saying to make out that his nebulizer was in the living room of their apartment and he didn’t think he could get up from the floor of his bedroom to get it.

“May,” he’d wheezed. “I can’t breathe…I can’t breathe…”

She’d been trained to stay calm in the midst of panic, but even so, hearing the way Peter struggled to get enough air to be able to speak had filled her with the deepest dread. May added Tony in on the call, and she’s sure someone was looking out for them that day, because Tony had picked up, had gotten there just in time to get Peter set up with a treatment and breathing again.

He’d taken him back to the Tower for the night, just to be safe, and May had sobbed like an idiot on the phone later that evening, feeling like a failure for not having been there. “He can stay here for as long as he needs to,” Tony had insisted. “It’s really not a problem, May.”

Tony had gotten involved and he’d promised to make sure Peter saw the best doctors at SHIELD, that MedBay would be stocked with everything he could ever need. She’d seen an improvement almost instantly, watched his wheezing disappear for weeks at a time, felt things shift back to normal.

And things had stayed that way ever since.

“Dunno how long I can…keep my eyes open for,” Peter admits, rubbing his eyes. “Have a headache.”

“Soup. Right,” May says, coming back to the present. “Be right back.” She leaves the door open and Peter closes his eyes to alleviate the pounding behind his eyes.

“Hey, Tony. You okay? You look stressed,” Peter hears May ask in the hallway.

Tony sighs and Peter imagines him rubbing his temple. “Work stuff. I promised Grumman that I’d reschedule our meeting for a video conference tomorrow afternoon, and on Friday I have to go to Baltimore for a few in-person meetings with Lockheed. Depending on how that goes, I might need to be gone Saturday as well.” There’s another sigh. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be unloading all of this on you. I told Pepper to tell them there’s been a family emergency, but I don’t know how long I can keep holding off on work without some serious ramifications. It’s the end of the fourth quarter and the board is up my ass right now about not being on top of everything.”

The stress in Tony’s voice is enough to make Peter feel like an asshole, because Tony has been present at every turn since this nightmare began despite his usual schedule of non-stop meetings and hours hidden away in his lab. He picked Peter up from school on Friday and stayed with him in MedBay, was the first face Peter saw after his surgery, even held Peter while his airways closed and filled with mucus the other morning, all while reassuring him that he wasn’t alone, that he was doing such a good job, and reminding him to _keep breathing._

Tony’s cancelled all of that for Peter, and Peter hasn’t even thought of it until just now. He closes his eyes and turns away from the door, not wanting to think about any of this because it’s too much. Too much guilt and sickness and feeling like crap. He dozes for a short while, feels himself going in and out, and when May returns with his soup, a can of ginger ale, and pills, he finds that he can barely keep his eyes open. She organizes everything on his nightstand and sits at the edge of his bedside so that she can help him up. 

“Easy,” she soothes as Peter struggles to sit up and against the pillows.

“Really wanna sleep,” Peter groans.

"Just a little soup and then you can sleep,” she says, taking the bowl from the nightstand and stirring the soup with the spoon. She spends the next ten minutes bringing spoonfuls of broth and pastina to his lips, waiting patiently between mouthfuls for him to chew and swallow. He wants to complain that he isn’t a baby and can do it himself, but his arms feel like bricks and he can feel the fever working its way back into his system. When he’s finished, she coaxes him into taking the handful of pills she’s brought and gives him a few sips of ginger ale with a straw before she gets him started on a breathing treatment. He’s trying not to show how miserable he feels, but he’s sure he’s failing because May knows him much too well, can tell him what he’s going to think before he even thinks it sometimes.

“You know, when you were born, you were small enough to fit in your mother’s hands,” May reminisces with a small smile. “She called you her peanut. You had these big, dark eyes that would take everything in like a sponge. I used to warn her that you’d be trouble, that you were too smart for your own good.”

Peter side-eyes her and she laughs.

“You heard my conversation with Tony in the hall, didn’t you?” she finally asks, and Peter just nods, tries not to cry because the guilt of all of this is starting to become unbearable and he’s tired of being on the brim of tears all of the damn time. She nods knowingly and takes a moment to think. “You know how you’re taking what he said personally?”

Peter quietly curses May’s ability to read him like a book.

“He’s thinking the same about your being sick,” May explains. “He’s blaming himself.”

Peter’s forehead crumples in confusion. “Not anyone’s fault,” he whispers.

“Exactly.” She smiles and pulls the mouthpiece away from Peter’s lips to make sure there’s still medication coming out. “Almost done. I’ll be back in a few to check on you.”

“I see what you did there,” Peter says with a small laugh as she leaves. “Very clever, May.”

And even though he’s barely managed to whisper and she’s already halfway down the hall, he knows she’s heard him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thanks to HDAnalyst for being such a great beta reader! And a huge thank you to everyone still reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!

**Chapter 6**  
**Wednesday, December 25, Christmas Day (Part 2)**

By four in the afternoon, the Stark household is in full Christmas swing. FRIDAY is blasting Christmas jams in the kitchen while May helps Pepper put the finishing touches on dinner. Tony, Steve, Natasha, Bruce, Clint, and Thor are all enjoying a glass of wine in the living room, Peter laughing along to their banter from his place on the couch. He’s wearing his “Tis the Season to Be Amazing!” Spiderman Christmas sweater that was meant for MJ’s party, and while part of him is still bummed that he didn’t get to go, he’s glad that he felt well enough to shower after his midday nap and be part of the Avengers’ annual Christmas soirée this evening. He hates that everyone has to see him on oxygen, that he’ll probably have to do a treatment or two while everyone is still over, but Tony’s assured him that no one will comment, that they’re all just happy he’s doing better and that he can be present for the evening.

“Baby of Spiders! That garment is perplexing yet humorous,” Thor comments, sweeping his arm toward Peter, the wine in his glass splashing over the top. “What is it that you call such a sweater for Christmas?” 

“T-thanks,” Peter manages, annoyed that Thor’s called a baby. _Again_. “Um, a Christmas sweater?

“Aye! That’s the name! Wouldn’t it have been comical if Baby of Spiders had worn such a sweater during our mission this past evening?” Thor asks, addressing the group.

“What mission?” Peter’s asking, sitting up straight on the couch.

“Thor!” Bruce is chastising with a glare.

Peter feels tears pressing, the happiness from the day disappearing in one swift moment. “Y-you went on a mission? Without me?”

“Nothing crazy, kiddo,” Clint assures him. “Just a small wormhole-”

Tony is staring daggers at Clint, who is throwing back a look that screams _please don’t kill me!_

“A small wormhole?! There’s…_no such thing_… You went _without me and didn’t even tell me, Tony_?!” Peter’s near tears now, is overheating all of a sudden. He fumbles with his oxygen tubing and grabs the tank with both hands, rising from the couch and pulling it behind him to his room with such drive that even Peter surprises himself. It takes him a moment to situate it inside of his room before he slams the door shut and locks it, but he feels oddly accomplished for a few seconds as he leans back, lets himself slowly slide down until he’s sitting on the ground.

That’s when the tears hit.

“Peter,” he hears Tony behind the door with a small knock.

“Go away!” he yells, running the sleeve of his sweater beneath his nose.

“Come on, Peter. Let me in before I have Friday override the lock.”

_Of course he can override the damn lock_, Peter thinks, his anger rising. “Just leave me alone! _Please_!”

“Gotta calm down, kiddo,” Tony’s saying softly as he jiggles the knob. “Let’s talk about this.”

“You don’t get to tell me to calm down!” Peter yells, incredulous. _How could Tony have kept this from him? After everything?_

Tony signs and puts his forehead to the door. “Can you at least let me in so that we can talk?”

“I really wanna…be alone,” Peter says, hiccupping. “Please go away!”

“I’m giving you five minutes and then I’m coming in, okay?”

Peter doesn’t answer, just sits against the door with his forehead on his knees, his hands pulled into the sleeves of his sweater as he sniffles and focuses on breathing because the crying fit he’s just had is making his lungs feel heavy.

It’s not until he hears the lock unclick behind him and the door push against his back that he realizes his time is up, and with that, Tony’s half inside of the room looking so sorry that it’s borderline pitiful.

“We should talk about this,” Tony says, face creased with guilt.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Peter insists, wiping his eyes and using the wall to help himself up off of the floor. He takes a breath, thankful that his oxygen line is long enough to span his room, and starts toward his bed.

“Well, we _could_ talk about how your team went on a mission without you and then kept it from you.”

“I can’t go on a mission anyway, so it doesn’t even…it doesn’t even _matter_!” Peter argues as he sits on the edge of his bed.

Tony closes the door and goes to sit beside Peter, careful to leave some space between them because he knows Peter’s about ready to explode, is surprised that he hasn’t had a full-on fit of rage yet. He’s been angry, sure, and upset, but he still hasn’t seen Peter completely lose it, and there’s a part of him that knows it’s coming, is worried that it hasn’t come yet. He keeps his voice soft and sighs. “It does matter. We should have…_I _should have told you, Peter. I’m sorry. This one’s on me.”

“I don’t even know why I’m so upset!” Peter cries, his voice hoarse as he tries to stop the tears that are falling. 

Tony rubs his back and says, “I can think of a laundry list of reasons why anyone in your shoes would be upset.”

“I can be an asset to the team, it’s just that, right now, I can’t, and it makes me feel absolutely worthless.”

“You’re still getting your strength back, kiddo. Once we get your PFTs up, you can start some local patrols a few nights a week.”

“But we don’t even know if I can _be_ Spiderman like this, let alone go out on patrols.”

“Patience, young grasshopper.”

“Can’t exactly swing between buildings with an oxygen tank,” Peter posits. “And the meds interfere with my spider senses, so either way, it doesn’t work and we both know it.” Peter bites his lip and sniffles. “I know you’re trying to help Tony. I know you want me looking forward and thinking all positive, but right now, I just feel like I need to be in it, you know? Swim around in this for a bit while I adjust. It’s the only thing that feels right. I know it doesn’t seem productive. It probably isn’t even healthy, but it just feels…right, I guess.”

Tony thinks back to what things were like when he returned from Afghanistan. How he struggled to adjust to real life again afterwards. He’d refused any and all medical treatment in the beginning, because that meant that there was something wrong, that all of the digging around that they’d done in his first reactor surgery could have had negative consequences. He’d always struggled with sleep, but immediately after coming home was when the real sleepless nights began, followed by a lack of appetite. His coffee habit exploded, as did his penchant for spending days at a time in his lab. His fight or flight response had taken over while he was _in it_, stuck in a cave with strangers keeping him captive, and he couldn’t figure out how to turn it off once he was home. He remembers the cave being the easy part, even though it was by no means or definition easy, the _after_ the confusing mess that he, admittedly, feels like he’s still trying to figure out sometimes, even after all of these years.

Because sometimes, he still looks over his shoulder, thinking that someone is there, watching and waiting. And sometimes, when Peter is trying to help in the lab and his clumsy self knocks a knee into a metal workbench, he jumps and has to slow his racing heart. There are the nightmares that wake him from the deepest of sleeps, have him screaming out and sweating through his pajamas, and the panic attacks that, due to intensive therapy and Ativan, have stayed away for the last three years. Pepper calls these moments his _aftershocks_, and it makes Tony think that there’s been some kind of earthquake that’s misshapen his landscape, his _life_, forever. It’s an analogy that he doesn’t mind, because it deflects from the fact that he had little to no control over what happened to him. It gives him the energy to focus on the now, the things he can control. 

He knows that his struggle with PTSD has not been what he imagined PTSD would be, but then again, is anyone’s, he thinks? He can openly talk about explosions and fight in battles where people leave this world, all without breaking down, but then he comes home and things like Pepper dropping and shattering a coffee cup on the kitchen floor can keep him on edge for hours, has him checking over his shoulder repeatedly, eyes wide and searching for a danger that he _knows_ isn’t really there. Sometimes, he can’t turn it off, sees things that aren’t threats as threats, and he’s had to apologize one too many times for starting fights with Pepper that have no basis because he just can’t get the scanner in his head to turn _off_ sometimes.

Peter doesn’t understand why missing a mission was so distressing, but Tony does. It’s an aftershock caused by the earthquake that is having multiple near-death experiences, being diagnosed with a chronic, life-altering disease. At some point, Tony knows that Peter is going to need to talk with someone about what’s happened. What’s _happening_. He knows Peter will refuse to not because he doesn’t think he needs to, but because he doesn’t know what to say, how to make any sense of what’s happening.

Peter sniffles, wipes the tears from under his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

“You’re allowed to be angry, Peter,” Tony says. “Not that you need my permission to feel angry. I was angry for a really long time after Afghanistan. Sometimes, I still am.”

“I guess I’m angry, but I’m also really sad? And scared? And my mind keeps replaying our conversation on the rooftop, about how if I’m nothing without the suit, then I shouldn’t have it.” Peter looks up at the ceiling and licks his lips, eyes glossy with tears. “I keep thinking that I don’t deserve it not because I can’t use it, but because this is all my fault. I’ve put my team at risk because now they’re down one man, I’ve disappointed May and you and Pepper, and I just feel really…_numb. _Youknow that’s not like me, Tony.” He looks over at him, his lip trembling. “And while I want to focus on Disney and getting back to school and patrolling and missions, it all seems so distant. Like another life, almost. And then I worry that I’m never going to get there, because realistically, that could happen. It might get better, but it might not, too. I might be stuck like this, _sick_ like this, for the foreseeable future, and I’m not sure how to do this for the next few days, let alone forever.” He inhales sharply to keep from sobbing, does it again, is trying to keep it together because he wants to cheer up, wants to get his breathing under control because his lungs are aching and angry from crying.

“You’re right,” Tony reasons. “This is much more complex than thinking positively and looking forward. You might only need the Nucala once a week and your rescue inhaler for emergencies, which is our best case scenario, or you might need to keep up your current regiment every day, but even if that was the case, I’d find a way to get you back to school and patrolling. And to Disney. Already working on it, kiddo.”

“I don’t know if I’d want to get back to all of that if this wasn’t better,” Peter whispers, fidgeting with his oxygen tubing. “And honestly, as excited as I am about Disney, I’m scared of what will happen if I’m still sick. I don’t want to do Disney like this. Or school. Or Spiderman. I really, really don’t. I’m not…_me_ like this.”

And suddenly, Tony gets it. Remembers why he hid away in his lab and refused to see anyone but Pepper and Happy for months after he’d come home. If people didn’t see him, they couldn’t judge him, and if they couldn’t judge him, they couldn’t change the way they saw him. 

Which meant that Tony could avoid changing the way he saw himself.

Because watching your body change and learning your new limits by testing them and being beaten down by them repeatedly, Tony had learned, is frustrating on the deepest possible level. And having everyone watching and worrying had only made things worse.

“How about this. If there’s another mission and you can’t come along, I’ll have FRIDAY include you on the channel. This way, you can hear us and chat, maybe even do some armchair special ops for us.”

Peter looks up with a hopeful smile and tears still in his eyes. “I think I’d like that.”

“I should have told you about the mission, Peter. I’m sorry. I was trying to avoid making you upset. I wanted you to rest and enjoy today.”

“I know. It’s okay. I shouldn’t have freaked out. A mission was going to happen sooner or later, but I…_God_, I cried in front of _everyone_!” Peter covers his face with his hands.

“Well, I can attest that Thor, if not everyone else, is three sheets to the wind right now and will probably forget everything that just transpired in the living room,” Tony says, gently prying Peter’s hands from his face. “But also, they’re your team, Peter. They just want you better and out there kicking butt. They don’t care if the journey there looks like this. Did you know that Natasha’s been texting me non-stop asking how you’re doing? Or that Bruce has been trying to come up with ways to equip your suit with albuterol and epinephrine? Just in case?”

“No,” Peter admits.

“I’m honestly surprised Natasha hasn’t knitted you a blanket by now.”

“Black Widow…_knits_?” Peter asks, laughing through his tears.

There’s a knock on the door, and Steve opens it to pop his head into the small crack he’s created.

“Hey, Tony. Pepper needs some help in the kitchen,” Steve explains. “Natasha and I were trying, but-”

“Pepper’s particular, I know,” Tony says, shaking his head with a laugh. “Last year, she banished me from the residence until our guests arrived after I shattered a glass and nearly destroyed the turkey, so I’d say it’s progress that she’s letting everyone hang around while she preps. Let me guess: You offered to help, and she sent you away because you didn’t set the table properly?”

Steve is taken aback. “How did you know?”

“Like I said, Pep’s particular. I’m going to go and save Christmas before it’s too late,” he jokes. “You think you’re okay, Pete?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says, and it feels like a half-truth and half-lie at the same time. Tony pats his shoulder twice before he gets up, awkward silence blanketing the room the moment Tony exits.

“So, Christmas movie?” Steve asks from the doorway. “Most of the Avengers team is heavily under the influence right now, so a movie and a nap might be a good idea before dinner,” he says, laughing.

Peter laughs back, wiping away any evidence of crying. “As long as it’s not _Elf_, I’m good.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with Elf?” Steve says, pretending to be offended.

“It’s one of May’s favorites and I’ve been subjected to that movie more times than I care to count.”

“I’m sure we could find something on Netflix,” Steve says.

“Deal.”

By the time everyone has found a place on the couch or floor to get comfortable, Peter can feel his eyelids drooping. His chest is getting heavy and he knows it’s time for a treatment, but he wants to watch whatever Natasha’s ended up picking out, knows that he can nap later, after the movie and dinner.

Tony pops in as the opening credits roll, the new nebulizer and a package of medication in his hands, and he knows, then, that Tony isn’t going to let him off the hook for even one treatment. He gets why, but he also hates that his team is around, that they’ll _see_. He pulls the blanket from the back of the couch up and over his head in a fake effort to hide.

Tony sits and pulls the blanket away. “You can hate me for this later,” he says, squirting a nebule of medication into the top of small, handheld nebulizer from earlier.

“I don’t hate you,” Peter corrects, sighing. “I just don’t want to drown out the movie with this.”

Tony smirks, closes the green top, and clicks the device on. Mist appears, but there’s no sound.

“Wait…is this…for real?” Peter asks, confused. There aren’t any wires or clunky compressors, just a small, white handheld cylinder with a small mouthpiece jutting out.

“Yup,” Tony says, giving a small smile. “It’s silent and it’ll cut your treatment time down from 15 to 4 minutes.”

Peter’s eyes light up. “4 minutes?!”

“I told you I’d find you a way to get you back to school and patrolling,” Tony says, smiling as he hands the device over to Peter, who places the small mouthpiece between his lips. He’s impressed with how small and lightweight it is. “No one will even know you have it in your backpack, and if you need a treatment, you can just take it without having to worry about noise or the time it’ll take. It’s supposed to last 30 treatments before needing to be recharged.”

Peter tries not to think about how much the nebulizer has cost Tony, because he knows that he has more money than he knows what to do with, but he also can’t help but think about how May could never afford this. How he was going without inhalers in the beginning because they were nearly $80 a pop with insurance. He shudders to think about what would have happened if he’d never met Tony or gotten the Stark internship.

“Stop thinking about the price tag, kiddo.”

“M’not,” Peter grumbles around the mouthpiece.

“Sure,” Tony answers with a laugh, getting up from the couch. “Enjoy the movie. Let me know the ending.”

“You should stay with us, Tony,” Natasha poses. “Pepper’s two seconds away from banning you from the kitchen anyway.”

“Ah, but I have to wait for her to ban me,” Tony points out. “It’s the rules of marriage. Once I’m banned, I can leave. Until then, she owns my soul.”

Everyone laughs, and Tony winks to Peter on his way out as he holds up 4 fingers. Peter smiles, feels like 4-minute treatments sound a hell of a lot better than what he’s been doing. He still hates that he has to do it, but 4 minutes? 4 minutes is doable, even if it’s multiple times a day. 4 minutes is one song through his headphones. The amount of time it takes him to gel his hair. A commercial break. The time between bells at school. 

He calculates his original every-four-hour breathing treatment schedule, multiplies 15 by 6, because that’s the number Bruce has him doing every day, give or take. That’s ninety minutes, or 1.5 hours attached to a box plugged into the wall. It doesn’t seem like much time, but Peter can think of a million ways he’d rather be spending his time. This new system is 24 minutes total, though, and 24 minutes feels doable. Feels a little more normal and a lot less like limits.

_“I told you I’d find a way to get you back to school and patrolling.”_

He’s been afraid to admit that he doesn’t want to go back to his old life like this, because that means that he’s accepted this, that it’s somehow okay when it’s not, but he’s also afraid of adjusting. Or rather, _not_ adjusting. Peter is used to having boundless energy, used to going from school, to decathlon at 2:30, and then to patrol, finally getting in around ten, sometimes later, and staying up past midnight to finish homework.

He knows going back to school won’t be like that, that he won’t even be able to patrol for a while if his lungs keep doing their thing. But something shifts inside of Peter as he does his silent treatment, and while he doesn’t want to admit it, he does feel a little lighter. A little more hopeful.

“Hey, can’t wait until you’re back in the game with us, Spidey,” Natasha says quietly with a smile from her place beside him, giving Peter a soft punch in the arm. He smiles and curls into a ball against the back of the couch, letting himself get lost in the movie while he finishes his treatment.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up groggy and confused. He sees that his nebulizer is off and sitting upright on the coffee table, can feel that there’s a knitted blanket on top of the couch blanket draped over him, and his first real thought is that he wants to tell Tony that Natasha has, in fact, made him the blanket he mentioned. Even though the movie is still playing, Steve is the only one awake. He’s moved so that he’s sitting right beneath Peter’s place on the couch, and he glances back when he hears Peter shift to readjust his oxygen tubing.

“You missed the best part,” Steve jokes. “But then again, so did everyone else. Can’t say I blame them. Thor’s attempt at homemade wine should be labeled as illegal moonshine.”

“Ever see this really old movie called _National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation_?” Peter asks, glancing around the room at the sleeping Avengers. “This reminds me of the scene where Cousin Eddie spikes the eggnog. _This_ is exactly what I imagined as the end result.”

“No, but I like your jokes and pop culture references. Haven’t heard them in a while,” he’s doing the smiling laugh thing he always does. “Keeps me young.”

“You’re not old, Steve,” Peter says.

He laughs. Again. “Keep telling me that, kid.”

There’s silence between them as the movie plays and Peter fiddles with the corner of Natasha’s blanket.

“Um, I didn’t get to thank you yet. For the other day?” He pulls the blanket tight around his shoulders. “But thank you, Steve.”

“Hey, no thanks needed.”

“You stabbed me in the thigh with a needle,” Peter jokes quietly, but beneath his words, he’s anxious. Uncomfortable.

“That’s what teammates do, right?”

“Yeah, they do, but…I don’t know…this whole thing has been really weird and confusing, and I guess I just don’t feel like a part of the team anymore?” Peter squints and grimaces as he says it, is unsure about admitting something so personal.

“Peter, no matter what happens, you’ll always be an Avenger,” Steve assures him. “I think I can speak for everyone when I say that. We’ve all had our own mountains to climb. This one just happens to be yours.”

“Think Bruce and Tony can engineer a super serum to fix my cra-_cruddy_ immune system?” Peter asks with a laugh, careful not to curse in front of Steve.

“You don’t need a super serum, Peter. What you need is time and support, and thankfully you’ve got a lot of both of those things.”

“It’s just hard is all,” he says, shrugging.

“I remember when breathing was hard,” Steve says softly, knowingly. “It’s been a long time, but I still remember. I used to do a lot of hiding under blankets and pretending that I could do all of the things I couldn’t do when I couldn’t breathe.”

“You beat it, though.”

Steve points a finger at himself. “I did something stupid and it worked out. There’s a difference.”

Peter sighs. “You were resilient, though. Fought to get where you are by pushing for what you wanted. Reached your goal. Hence, breathing.”

Steve shakes his head. “What I did wasn’t resilience, Peter.”

“It was,” Peter insists.

“It wasn’t, because to me,” Steve says, his eyes meeting Peter’s, “resilience looks a lot like _this_.”

“Like being attached to an oxygen tank and covered in blankets?” Peter asks, skeptical. “Sure, Steve.”

“Resilience looks a lot like someone trying to figure out how they’re going to do the things they want to do regardless of the things they can’t control, not someone looking for a quick fix. Resilience takes time and effort. It takes persistence and planning. And it takes failure. A lot of it.”

“Isn’t that exactly what you did, though, failed until you figured out how you were going to do the things you wanted when you decided to take the serum?”

“No. See, I went chasing for a quick answer and I lucked out. Sometimes ambition can blind you. In fact, I was the only one chasing some kind of cure that day who didn’t have any negative effects. And yes, I didn’t have the medication you have today that would have allowed me to do some of the things I wished I could do. But you? You’ve been dealing with asthma for over a year now and showing it who’s boss by putting that suit on despite your fears and getting out there to stick up for the little guy,” Steve says. “You have been amazingly resilient in ways you don’t even know. It’s gotten ten times harder in the last week, no doubt about that, but we know you, Peter. Your team knows you well enough to know you’re going to find a way back to being Spiderman, and we’re here to help you. Part of resilience is having the right supports in place.”

Peter looks down. “Did Tony tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Peter’s slow to look up because he doesn’t want to say it out loud, doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth. He takes a breath and sighs. “That I can’t be Spiderman with all of my meds? They affect my biochemistry. My webshooters aren’t even functionable right now. I’m essentially useless.”

“You could never be useless, Peter. I know that this is not the most fun you’ve ever had by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m a firm believer in the idea that difficult experiences shape people to be better.”

The thought grinds against Peter, doesn’t feel right, because he doesn’t feel like a better person because of any of this. In fact, he feels a million times _worse_ than he’s sure he’s ever felt about himself before. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to agree with me right now, or ever, for that matter.”

“To me, this sort of feels like that song by Kelly Clarkson. The one about “What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger,” Peter says.

Steve thinks for a moment and Peter imagines him humming the chorus in his head to check if it’s the right song. “The one that Tony plays during group workouts?”

“Yes, that’s the one. After all of this, I’ve come to the conclusion that what doesn’t kill you actually gives you some really unhealthy coping mechanisms and a very dark sense of humor.”

Steve’s confused. “Is that supposed to be funny, or…”

Peter laughs, because of course his joke has fallen completely flat for Captain America. “Honestly, it was supposed to be both…”

“You know, I’ve lived more lives than most get to live. When you’ve been around as long as I have, you see the world a little differently. When I look at you, I see the definition of resilience. Even if that means an oxygen tank.”

“I still don’t get how you can think that _you_ weren’t resilient by finding yourself a cure,” Peter poses. “I mean, you’ve never had to deal with asthma again, or any of your other health stuff. If I could undo this or cure it, I would in a heartbeat. No questions asked.”

“I think I was more resilient when I faced things and lived with them, not when I fought against them. I know society uses war terminology to talk about illness, but fighting against it day-in and day-out can burn you out, kid. It’s the _living with it_ that truly makes someone resilient. And resilience isn’t this flashy thing everyone assumes it is. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“I don’t want to have to be resilient.” Peter feels like he’s been trying to say that for days now, just couldn’t pin the emotions down and find the words to until now.

“Well, we don’t get to choose our cards, that’s for sure. But, like I said, you have a whole army of people here who want to help.”

“I guess I just don’t feel like I’ve been doing any of that. Facing or fighting, with or without help. Again, I’ve been absolutely useless. I couldn’t even help in the battle last night.”

“Stop with that. You are _not_ useless,” Steve reiterates quite sternly, and Peter looks away, feeling embarrassed. Steve sighs and softens his tone. “Hey, look at me, Peter.” Peter looks over begrudgingly, unsure if he wants to hear any more. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like you did the other day. I mean, you couldn’t even _breathe,_ and yet you were trying so hard to communicate. Immediately after I gave you the epi-pen, you were trying to advocate for yourself and help problem-solve, try to figure out why it had happened. You, sitting here, trying to be a part of the holiday fun while on oxygen and having to take medication that you’re afraid to take in front of people because it’s different? _That’s_ facing things and living with them. It’s about fighting to keep moving forward, not to undo the past. _That’s_ resilience.”

Peter sighs. “I was so weak, though. Tony had to carry me to MedBay, and then I kept falling asleep...”

“You are so darn stubborn!” Steve laughs. “You, my friend, need to learn to take a compliment. Anyway, resilience doesn’t mean doing it all alone, kid. Sometimes, resilience is letting people help you. You have to make sure you’re not fighting your best allies because you never know when you’ll need them the most.”

Peter lets that thought sink in. It’s obvious that May, Tony, and Pepper are willing to help, that the whole Avengers team is, but he hadn’t realized just how much he’d been pushing them away until now. It’s been so hard for him to let people see him like this, so vulnerable and terrified of not knowing what might happen next. He thinks of the crying and whining, of the anxiety living in his chest. He feels like his airways are a ticking time bomb ready to take everyone around him down with him one wheeze at a time, and it’s wearing him thin even more, he thinks, than the physical limitations of this stupid disease. He wants to tell Steve that he feels too guilty right now to let anyone help, that he’s angry he’s had to put everyone in this situation to begin with.

He’s so used to feeling responsible in good ways, but this feels like the burden of all burdens. And he hates this it’s so complicated. In the beginning, back in chemistry class, he’d been so focused on making it to the last bell, to MJ’s party. But now, he just wants his life back, wants everything and everyone go back to the way it was _before, _and he hates that he knows just how impossible that is. It’s enough to make it hard to breathe again, to make him feel utterly worthless and like he can’t fix this disaster he’s created or the disasters that just keep coming.

But he also knows that Steve is right. That he needs to let May, Tony, and Pepper in. Let his team in. He’s been trying, mostly because he’s been so weak that he hasn’t been able to do everyday tasks independently, but he knows what Steve really means; it’s not so much about the physical things as the emotional ones. Hearing Tony all stressed out and unloading on May in the hallway had really done a number on Peter, as had finding out about the Christmas Eve battle. And while he knows without explanation that Tony did those things to protect him from the truth as a means of helping, he also knows that in the end, it had honestly only _hurt_. Nearly everything that’s happened since Friday has been emotionally painful on a level Peter has never experienced before, and he knows that’s saying a lot because he and May have had their fair share of heartbreak, but for the first time, this is Peter’s mountain, and even with the help, he fully understands that in reality, it’s his mountain _alone_.

All of the help in the world doesn’t change the fact that _he’s_ the one with the crappy lungs and no breaks from reality.

He knows this. Knows it so deeply that he wonders if _that’s_ really the ache buried beneath his ribcage keeping him from being able to breathe without support. Letting May help him shower or allowing Tony to set up his nebulizer is one thing, but to fully let them in on the emotional turmoil that’s only going to make them more worried than they already are?

Peter’s not stupid enough to let things get there, would rather lie until he’s blue in the face.

He rethinks his last thought, hates the morbidity of it, and settles on lying for just a little bit longer, until things settle down with the hope that he never has to tell anyone about the way his anxiety is spiraling far beyond anything he thought possible. It’s not really lying if you’re just keeping it to yourself, right?

He can do the emotional part all on his own, doesn’t need to add that to the list of responsibilities on everyone else’s plate. And it’s not only because he wants to, but also because he knows he _has_ to. Seeing May cry again and apologize for not being here? Peter’s not sure he can handle that right now, nor can he handle the way Pepper stops in his doorway throughout the night to check on him or having Tony get in trouble with work because he’s been too busy keeping Peter _breathing_ to keep Stark Industries running.

So he’s going to tuck it away, keep it safe.

For now, at least.

Just for now.

X

“All right. Everyone to that side of the table,” May says, taking her phone out for a picture.

“May!” Peter groans as everyone assembles, albeit haphazardly. He pulls his oxygen cannula off so that it’s not in the picture and tries to find a place where he fits. Everyone is mid-conversation, wine glasses and beers in hand. The disorganization makes Peter blush. “We literally look like that painting of _The Last Supper_ from grandma’s kitchen like this!” he directs toward May.

“The da Vinci one?” she asks.

Peter is nearly dying with embarrassment over the fact that May has asked the Avengers to assemble for a _picture_. “Ugh, yes, the da Vinci one!”

“Does that make me Jesus?” Tony asks jokingly from the middle, the room exploding into a burst of laughter. “But also, May needs to be in the picture. Dummy, where are you?” he calls out.

Dummy whirs in and Tony walks over, takes his phone out. He places it in the robot’s hands, sets up the camera feature, and adjusts the height until it’s ready to go.

“Alright, say cheese!” Tony directs once everyone, himself and May included, is posing and ready.

The flash goes off and Tony goes over to make sure the picture is decent. “Looks good to me,” he comments as he zooms in and out. “Time for food!”

That’s everyone’s cue to sit down. Tony clinks a fork against his glass to get everyone quiet once the disorganization of the picture dissolves into everyone having found their seat.

“So, I’ve never been a very religious person, but over the years, I’ve realized the importance of giving thanks, so here it is. While it may not always seem so, there are many things I’m grateful for. I think today is the perfect time to acknowledge and be thankful for family, friends, and this beautiful and savory spread that Pepper and May have spent all day preparing for us. So thank you, to whoever the powers may be, for allowing us to share this day and food together. Amen.”

“Amen!” everyone repeats with such gusto that Peter is sure that the wine Thor has made is definitely the moonshine Steve said it was.

Plates begin to get passed around the table, glasses clinking, forks and knives scraping as everyone digs in.

It’s when Peter’s finished half of his plate that Pepper slides a pill over, discretely, of course, but a pill, nonetheless. It’s his antibiotic, and he needs to take it, but he’s tired and full, can’t imagine downing it with a large gulp of water because is there even anywhere for it to go? He knows it’s going to make his stomach hurt, that it’ll slow down his thinking and essentially kick his ass for the next few hours, but he also knows he needs it. That it’s helping, at least, which makes it worth taking. He grimaces, popping it in his mouth quickly before downing it in one, swift gulp of water.

He’s not supposed to have his phone at the table, but he feels it vibrate in his pocket, pulls it out and looks down to a text from Tony.

_Proud of you, Underoos._  
  
_For popping pills?_ Peter texts, smirking to himself.

_For doing the things you don’t want to do but have to._  
  
_Yeah, well, didn’t have much of a choice, did I?_  
  
_You’re damn right you didn’t!_  
  
Peter is taken aback, looks up to see Tony smiling slyly at him from across the table, and smiles himself. They both look down at their phones again.

_Still proud of you, kiddo._

_Thanks, Dad_, he goes to type, erasing the last word, because _why_ does he keep wanting to say that? He’s not even used to calling anyone Dad. Not since…

He doesn’t want to think about that. Not on Christmas. Holidays have always been hard, but this is the first time he’s been so distracted that he hasn’t really focused on what life would have been like if things had been different. He tries not to get lost in _what ifs,_ but his brain likes to go there sometimes without his permission. Peter knows that the holidays are hard for May, too, because she didn’t ask for any of this, for the full responsibility of Peter when he was just four years old. She’s always putting him first, making sure he has what he needs, even after the bite. He knows that it isn’t easy, that it _hasn’t _been, that while she’s just as overbearing as Tony sometimes, she’s doing it out of true, unconditional love.

“Did you thank Natasha for the blanket?” May’s behind Peter, has her hands on his shoulders.

“Huh?” Peter asks, rubbing his forehead. His brain is feeling muddled, which means the antibiotics are already kicking in.

“He already did,” Natasha vouches from his left, and Peter’s confused, because he hasn’t had a chance to thank her yet. _What is going on?_

“You look about ready to conk out on us, Pete,” May jokes. “When he was little, he used to fall asleep in his food. Spaghetti, cake, you name it, Peter fell asleep in it!”

“May!” he groans, rolling his eyes. “Can you keep from embarrassing me for like five seconds?”

“Not until you’re 18, and I can’t make any promises to stop after that,” she says, her, Natasha, and Pepper laughing at the joke together.

“Did you guys have Thor’s wine or something?” Peter’s asking, which only makes the women laugh even harder. They’re hysterical, every look at each other or comment sending them into new a new laughing fit.

It only makes Peter’s head pound harder.

_Go lay down, kiddo. You’ve got two hours until your next treatment,_ Tony texts.

_Don’t wanna miss out_.

_FOMO?_

_Very funny._ Peter gives a small huff of a laugh and excuses himself from the table. He pulls his oxygen tank behind him, grabs Natasha’s blanket from the living room to drape over his shoulders, and heads for his dark bedroom where he plops onto the bed belly down and promptly passes out.

He wakes in a panic when he feels the blanket move, screams out when he sees a large, dark shadow from the lamp on his nightstand displayed against the wall.

“Shh, hey, just me, kid,” Tony’s saying softly in the lamplight from his place on the bed as he adjusts the blanket so that it’s covering Peter. “Your fever’s back. It’s low, so I’m not too worried. Bruce said it’s from the antibiotics doing their thing, but I wanted to check on you.”

Peter’s heart is about ready to bounce out of his chest, but he maneuvers so that he’s on his side, the blanket pulled around his shoulders as he lets his eyes meet Tony’s. “Scared me,” he pants, letting the oxygen help him catch his breath.

“Bruce said that the fever’s a good thing, but also recommended Motrin to keep it from spiraling. Think you can sit up?”

It takes Peter a moment, and he can see Tony itching to help, but he gets himself sitting up against his pillows all on his own, takes the pills and water from Tony and swallows them.

“You’re about ready for your next treatment,” Tony says, and Peter groans, because that means he’s been out for over an hour and a half, that’s he’s probably missed dessert. He just hopes May hasn’t had too much wine and…

He hears the opening bars to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” come from the living room.

“Oh God, _no_,” Peter moans, pulling the blanket over his head.

“Peter? What’s wrong?” Tony’s asking, half-panicked.

He moans again as Tony rips the blanket away. “Did May ask to do karaoke?”

“Maybe?” Tony asks, confused.

“_Fuck_.”

Tony takes a steadying breath and puts a hand on his chest. “Peter, you just scared the _shit_ out of me! You know I have a heart condition!”

Peter does puppy eyes to keep Tony from yelling. “Sorry! It’s just that May, when she gets drunk, she likes to do classic rock karaoke a-and…”

“Just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world, she took the midnight train going anywhere,” May sings, and while Peter will always think May has a great voice, it’s still _embarrassing_.

Tony catches on quickly. “_Oh_.”

“Yeah.”

Pepper cuts in with, “Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit…”

“Oh no,” Tony says, covering his face.

“We have to put a stop to this,” Peter says, moving to get up.

“You, my friend, are staying right where you are. Let them have their fun,” he says, gently pushing Peter back against the pillows, laughing when Pepper’s voice cracks on the word _anywhere_. “I think everyone could benefit from a night out, no?”

“But it’s not a night out?” Peter asks.

“The stress level in this household has been critical for five full days and I think a little karaoke won’t hurt anyone.”

“But Thor’s moonshine might!” Peter says.

Now Tony’s really confused. “What?”

“It’s homemade! Steve said so!” Peter’s genuinely concerned, but Tony has a smile on his face.

“That…would explain a lot,” Tony says, laughing. “But I’m not worried. He does this all of the time. You, however,” he continues, tone changing, “I’m still slightly worried about.”

“You said you weren’t worried about my fever.”

“You have asthma and a nasty bout of pneumonia right now,” Tony explains, pulling Peter’s nebulizer from his nightstand into his lap. He removes a clean mouthpiece, one that Pepper’s probably sterilized in the giant pot that’s been parked on the stove in the kitchen for days, from the pocket of his sweater. “I said I wasn’t _too_ worried, but I’m still worried, kiddo.”

“So Iron Man _does_ have a Dad Mode,” he jokes.

“Peter,” Tony says, giving him a look, but Peter can tell that he doesn’t hate it. Not really.

“Hey, how come you and Pepper never had kids?” he asks, instantly hating himself for it, because _who even asks that, Peter_?

“Well,” Tony says, thinking for a moment as he connects the nebulizer tubing to Peter’s mouthpiece and the compressor. Peter goes to stop him, feels like he should really work on filtering his thoughts, but then Tony sighs and tilts his head like he’s actually going to answer, and Peter holds back. “I didn’t exactly have the best father figure, nor did I have the best relationship with him. I guess I just always thought I’d make a shitty dad. I’m egotistical, overly caffeinated, don’t sleep for days, am always in my head and away on business,” he explains, ripping a nebule from the packet from earlier, twisting open the top, and squirting medication into the reservoir on the mouthpiece. “I’m used to letting people down,” he continues, making a face, “Which, sounds crazy, right? I’m Iron Man. All I do is help people, save the world from aliens and bad guys. But it wasn’t always like that. I wasn’t always the Tony I am now, and I’m not even sure that this Tony is Dad material, to be honest.”

“I-I didn’t really get to know my dad,” Peter starts, because he feels like he owes Tony something personal after he answered such an intrusive question. “But May has this photo album…under the coffee table? And she pulls it out now and then, tells me stories that go with the pictures. There’s one of my dad and me…at the Bronx Zoo. I think I’m a little over a year old. He’s holding my…little arms with two fingers each, just enough to keep me…upright but also enough to let me try to walk on my own. I think about that picture a lot, actually, wonder what kind of dad…he would have been.” He doesn’t realize that a tear has fallen until he goes to wipe it.

“Whoever your dad would’ve been, he would’ve been lucky to have you as a son, Underoos,” Tony admits, looking up at Peter with glassy eyes and a small smile.

“You think?” Peter asks, sniffling.

“I don’t just think it, I _know_ it.”

“Okay,” Peter laughs through his tears. “Now I know you’re lying.”

“First of all, I’m offended,” Tony says with his usual sarcasm, but Peter can sense a smile trying to break through. “And second, you really need a treatment. You sound like you’re trying to climb Everest and you haven’t even left this bed in two hours.”

“I do not!” he argues.

“Do you remember that time you blatantly disobeyed my orders, hitched a ride on an alien ship into the stratosphere, and started running out of air?” Tony pretends to be reminiscing as he plugs the machine in.

“When you told me to let go…and you’d catch me?”

“Yup. That’s _exactly_ what you sound like right now.” Tony doesn’t want to admit that Peter’s slight fever and his wheezing has him on edge, so he plays along, keeps the sarcasm up.

“For the record, you didn’t…catch me.”

“For the record, you passed out and I had to have FRIDAY send you home with a parachute, so,” Tony throws back as he hands Peter the mouthpiece and flips the nebulizer switch. “Treatment, kiddo.”

“I like the other one better,” Peter says between inhales of the medication. “S’quieter.”

“Well, I like that this one drowns out that mouth of yours,” Tony says, laughing.

“Hey!”

“You know I love you, kid,” Tony adds with a smile.

“I know.”

The doorbell rings, and Tony sighs. He waits to see if someone else will get it, and just when he realizes that everyone else is too busy singing along to Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” in the living room, he hears it again. “That’s my cue,” he jokes, lifting from Peter’s bed.

“Hey, Tony?”

“Hmm?”

“Anyone would be really lucky to have you as a dad,” Peter says, smiling as he returns to his treatment.

Tony chuckles and takes the comment to heart before he leaves. 

Peter flops against the pillows, thinks about pulling out his phone to keep him occupied.

“Looks like we’ve got a visitor,” Tony comments from down the hallway, which leaves Peter confused until he hears footsteps and a voice outside of his door. _Her voice_. He knows Tony is tipping him off, is giving him time, but Jesus, why did she have to come tonight of all nights?!

“Hi Mr. Stark, I’m sorry to come on a holiday, but I wanted to drop off a gift for Peter.”

“No,” Peter says, ripping off the oxygen and shutting down his nebulizer. “No no no!” He rushes to hide everything under his duvet, finds that he’s moved too fast getting up and his head is spinning from the lack of oxygen. He grips the framing of the doorway and tries to catch his breath, but without his oxygen, his lungs feel like deflating balloons.

“MJ!” he says, completely panicked as she appears, fuzzy, from the doorway of his bedroom. It doesn’t help that his lungs are aching already, that he can feel the wheezing growing in his chest.

Tony gives him a look that screams _are you fucking kidding me_ when he sees that Peter’s pulled his oxygen off, but he rolls his eyes and leaves them be, figuring that a couple of minutes without the oxygen won’t hurt. He knows Peter will give in. _Hopes_ he will.

“W-what are you doing here?” Peter’s asking, rubbing the back of his head.

“I got you something and didn’t want to wait to give it to you. Also, I like your sweater. It’s…cute.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, looking down at his Spiderman Christmas sweater. “You didn’t have to get me anything, MJ. I-I don’t have anything for you.”

He feels stupid, suddenly, like he should have thought ahead, just in case.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks, concerned.

“Actually,” Peter starts, groaning internally because he really _really_ doesn’t want MJ to see his oxygen, but he’s struggling more than he wants to admit and he doesn’t like the way his fingers are tingling. He heads toward his bed, pulls out the tubing and adjusts it under his nose, then over his ears, taking in a few slow, deep relieving breaths. “I’m getting better but I’m also having a really hard time, so I kind of…need this.”

“Why did you think you had to hide this from me?” MJ asks, entering his room.

“Because it’s weird?” He shrugs, sitting on the bed. “I don’t know. I just wasn’t expecting to have to show anyone, so…”

“It’s not weird, Peter.”

“It is. You don’t have to lie to me, MJ.”

“Shut up, loser. I’m not lying to you.” She’s smiling, but it’s not fake, not like the one Flash throws him when he’s mocking him from across the room.

Peter can’t stop smiling and blushing. “It’s just been a really scary couple of days and it’s…really nice that you came, MJ.”

“Things weren’t really going well at my house anyway, so I figured maybe I should spread some holiday cheer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Seems like everyone here is having a good time,” she notes, and Peter’s brought back to reality, can hear Thor attempting “Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer.” 

“That,” Peter says with a breathy laugh, “is a bunch of drunk adults that you should try and ignore…because they’re super embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing or future revenge material if caught on camera?” she asks, holding her arms out like she’s weighing the options. Peter laughs. “Here, open your gift,” she insists, throwing a small, flat present wrapped in Grinch paper at him. He nearly misses, panics as he fumbles with it, before finally holding it still with both of his hands. He pulls the paper away and sees the title of the movie.

“_Home Alone_?” Peter asks, looking up.

“Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal!” she quotes.

He grins. “This is…perfect actually. Thanks, MJ. How’d you know…this was my favorite?”

She narrows her eyes on him. “You sure you’re okay? You sound like you’ve just run a mile in gym.”

“Um, I’m kind of supposed to be doing a…breathing treatment right now? But I didn’t know…you were coming and I…really didn’t want to do it in front of you…so I sort of…hid it?”

“So, let me get this straight: The only reason you’re doing that not-breathing thing is because I’m here? Peter, you really are an idiot,” she says, shaking her head. “I told you that I don’t care about any of this!”

“Are you sure, though? Because-”

She sweeps her hair behind her ears. “I mean, I _do_ care, just not in a judgmental way, you know?”

“MJ, please tell me you’re serious…and that you’re not just here to pry…because I’m really…not ready for everyone at school to know…about this and…”

She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. “Peter, I walked here on _Christmas_ so that I could see how you were doing. Do you know how many blocks that is? In negative degree wind-chill? You know the MTA is shit, especially on holidays. I brought you a movie as a gift because I missed seeing you at my party and figured that you still weren’t feeling so hot. I don’t care if you’re sick and your lungs suck! I’m not here so that I can turn around and tell everyone at school that you look like a pale, pasty mess. You really think that about me?” She looks hurt, like maybe whatever happened at home was really shitty and now she’s been let down again, and Peter suddenly feels like an asshole for assuming that she’d be here just for gossip.

“No, MJ, that’s not… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Is it really that hard for you to believe me when I say that I’m here because I kind of like you and I’m just glad that you’re okay? I’ve been worried sick about you, Peter.”

Peter’s shocked. “Wait, really? _You like me_?”

“Yes, loser!” she asserts. “Why do you think I invited you to my Christmas party?”

“Because you invited everyone?”

She pauses to think. “I did invite everyone, didn’t I? Shoot.”

“I mean, technically you didn’t invite…_everyone_, right? Because that’d…be impossible.” He laughs, and then MJ laughs, and while it only makes his breathing, or struggle with breathing, more prominent, he’s thankful it’s lightened the mood.

“How about we watch the movie and you do your breathing thing? You’re starting to scare me a little with that…”

“Wheeze,” he finishes for her, feeling his lungs pull. “It’s called wheezing. S’just part of…asthma.”

“You know, you were doing that in chem, before you passed out.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of part of…why I passed out… Anyway, my nebulizer, which…helps with the wheezing, is kind of loud,” Peter says as he motions toward it, hoping that MJ will help him talk himself out of finishing it.

“So is the sound you’re making, so, breathing thingy and movie?” 

Peter still can’t understand how none of this is weird for her, because he’s _sure_ that he’d be a little freaked out if he were in MJ’s shoes, but he takes a shaky breath in and nods, pulls his comforter flat so that his bed isn’t a mess, and fluffs his pillows. MJ kicks her shoes off and crawls over toward the window before he can even say anything, so he wordlessly grabs the movie and pops it into the DVD player in his TV. By the time the movie is on and he’s back under Natasha’s blanket, he can feel his lungs screaming for a breathing treatment. He turns the machine back on and takes slow, even breaths of the medication as he tries to remember how Kevin ended up being left home alone.

The door swings open and Peter sees that Tony’s appeared with a giant bowl.

“Thought you guys could use some popcorn,” he says, plopping it right between them on the bed as if it’s a marker for how much space should be between them, or rather, _shouldn’t_ be. He pulls a soda can from each sweater pocket and leaves them on the nightstand. “I know it’s loud out there, but if you could just keep the door open this much…” Tony trails, pulling the door closed so that only his head is between the door and the fame, “That’d be great.” He winks before he leaves, and Peter blushes, isn’t even sure he has oxygen to do anything close to what Tony’s just hinted at. Not that he’s thought about that with MJ.

Okay, so maybe he has. But he doesn’t expect it, knows that he’s not that guy and she’s not that girl and he’s literally just been cock blocked by Iron Man, of all people, and-

“Peter?”

“Hmm?” he asks with the mouthpiece between his lips, eyebrows up as he listens for what she might say next. 

“Soda?”

His hand is sweaty as he goes to grab one of the cans, feels it slip a bit as he tries to lift it, but he hands it over to MJ and watches as she pops the tab.

“Thanks,” she says, getting comfortable, her knee touching his despite the popcorn bowl between them. “Is this okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Peter answers, feeling the shakiness from the medicine and being next to MJ setting in. He hopes she can’t feel it, doesn’t notice.

“Breathe, Peter,” she jokes with a small laugh a moment later, and he it’s not until he exhales that he realizes he’s been holding his breath. “If anyone should be shaking with fear, it’s me, because I’m the one who hijacked Iron Man’s Christmas party and now I’m sitting and watching a movie with Spiderman.”

He wants to explain that it’s the medicine that is making him so shaky, but he stops himself, thinks for a moment.

He _hates_ that being around MJ turns his brain to mush.

_Hates_ that it’s taken him a few moments too long to register that she’s just admitted that _she knows he’s Spiderman_.

_What?!  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun! Let me know what you think in the comments. :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! While this chapter isn't long, I figured we could all use some fluff as we swing into the holidays! Enjoy!

**Chapter 7  
****Wednesday, December 25, C****hristmas Day (Part 3)**  
  
“Oh, shit,” she says, putting a hand to her mouth when she realizes what she’s just said.

“Wait, what?” he’s asking, turning off the nebulizer. He feels his heart rate rising beyond what the medication usually does and hopes Tony doesn’t get a high heart rate alert from FRIDAY.

“That was _not _supposed to come out like that. I…I know you’re Spiderman, Peter, and I was planning this whole elaborate way of telling you and then I just went and…_shit_.”

“I’m not Spiderman,” he says, and he feels a little too confident as he says it. More confident, in fact, than he’s ever been saying it.

“Cut the bullshit, Peter. I’m not stupid. I mean, you _live with Iron Man_.”

MJ is the smartest person Peter’s ever met, bar Tony, and even though he wants to argue with her to prove his point, he holds back because _he_ knows he’s lying, and _she_ knows he’s lying, which means there’s no point in wasting breath arguing about this.

“I’d never say you were stupid, MJ,” he says slowly. “I just…how did you know I lived here, exactly?”

Peter is kicking himself for not questioning how she knew he’d be here.

And why Happy let her up to the residence _on Christmas_ in the first place.

_Tony?_

His heart sinks at the thought that Tony doesn’t think he can even handle a _crush_ without his help.

MJ shifts on the bed. “After you passed out, Mrs. Benninger called the nurse, who showed up with a wheelchair. You were having a really hard time breathing and I was afraid that you’d be all alone, so I grabbed your backpack and followed you guys down to the nurse’s office. They couldn’t get through to your aunt, so I offered to look through your bag for your phone, and at the bottom-”

“Was my suit,” Peter says, deflating. He’s always been so protective of his suit, especially at school, and it pains him to know that his asthma has once again interfered with his ability to keep all of this under wraps.

“And then Tony came. He was really gentle with you and seemed like he knew you personally, much more personally than he would just from the Stark internship. He said something about getting you home, and I knew he meant here. Don’t ask me how, I just knew, and things just kind of…clicked for me, I guess,” she says, looking regretful. “I’m…sorry, Peter, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I got nervous and it just slipped. I wasn’t going to tell you right away. Or ever. I hadn’t…decided, exactly.”

Peter swallows, tries to breathe. His heart is pounding against his ribcage, which he knows is impossible, but it feels so _real_. _She knows she knows she knows_ is repeating over and over in his head, which isn’t helping him calm down at all.

“So,” Peter tries to say, but it comes out slow and somewhat garbled. “Y-you’re just here because I’m Spiderman, then?” He takes a breath, waits for her to respond.

The seconds tick by, painful and slow, and Peter spends that time holding back the sob building in his chest because he _really_ likes MJ, was afraid that he’d completely missed his chance and then she’d shown up at his door on Christmas, of all days, and-

“No,” she finally says, licking her lips and nervously brushing her hair behind her ears. “But can I at least explain before I walk myself out? So that I don’t look like a complete asshole?” She places her can on Peter’s windowsill beside the bed.

“You’re not an asshole, MJ.”

“Only I am, because I wanted to come a few days ago and see how you were, but then I was _afraid_ because I didn’t want you to know that I knew. I thought you’d be mad at me because I’d gone through your bag, which I shouldn’t have done in the first place, so you can totally be mad at me about that. I was just trying to help and all I did was end up making things a thousand times worse. I do that a lot. You probably don’t even remember everything that happened that day, but you were making that wheezing sound that you were when I got here and it had the nurses all worried because they couldn’t get it to stop, which made _me_ worry,” she’s continuing, and Peter can see now that her hands are shaking. “You were gasping like a fish out of water and they were giving you medicine like you were just taking and I was really confused because I didn’t even _know_ you had asthma, didn’t even know asthma could get that bad, didn’t even know Spiderman, of all people, could have asthma. And then you passed out in the nurse’s office, _again_. So for the last few days I’ve been kind of panicked about the fact that I knew about the Spiderman and asthma stuff, and I’d already bought you this stupid movie weeks ago and was waiting and waiting to give it to you, spent my whole party worrying about you, and then you _finally_ texted me and I had this weird feeling that something was really wrong, that you were underplaying everything because I saw how sick you were, and I knew I had to come see you myself and make sure you were actually okay.” She’s out of breath by the time she’s finished, is looking like she’s just about ready to sob herself.

“Y-you…came because you thought I wasn’t okay?” The thought has stolen his ability to breathe, is hard to comprehend and let settle.

“Have I not said that, like, ten times already?” she asks.

Peter laughs nervously and shrugs innocently. “I thought it was a metaphor?”

“Peter,” she laughs, wiping under her eyes. “You’re such an idiot! I’ve been trying to get that point across since I got here!”

“So, just to clarify, you’re _not_ here because I’m Spiderman?”

“Peter, if you make me say it one more time, I’m walking right out of this room and-”

“Okay, okay,” he says, putting his hands up, because he doesn’t want her to leave, knows it would feel like his heart is just as shattered as his shitty lungs are right now if he let her. “I um…I _really_ like you too, MJ, and I promise that I’m doing better than I was on Friday, but I’ve been…it’s been really bad the last few days. Today’s actually the first day I’ve felt anything like myself since this started. Things got really…complicated…_because_ of the Spiderman thing…and right now, we’re not even…not even sure I can _be _Spiderman like this.” Peter rubs his forehead because how did he just tell her his deepest and darkest secret?. And how is he going to explain this, the fact that MJ knows, to Tony? “I probably wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that. Please don’t repeat that. Don’t repeat _any of this_. Fuck, Tony’s gonna kill me when he finds out that-”

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Peter. I actually,” she says, laughing to herself as she shakes her head and wipes under her eyes again. “I actually thought to myself, later that day, that I had literally no chance because Spiderman...dating this? I’m not exactly superhero material.”

“And you think I am?”

He expects her to side-eye him, throw him some sarcasm, but instead she’s completely candid. “Honestly? Yeah.”

Peter’s taken aback. “Really?”

“Everyone thinks I carry the decathlon team, but I’ve looked at the data, Peter. It’s all you. You’re fucking brilliant. And you’re _kind_. You let Flash beat you down but you don’t take revenge on him no matter how embarrassed he makes you. And if you’re really Spiderman, which, we both know you are, you’re obsessed with doing the right thing even if it means you might lose out in the end. You’re not macho. You don’t boast. You love helping people. You’re Spiderman material, sure, but you’re also…you’re also just _Peter_ and I think that makes it even better.”

“Peter and Spiderman are not the same.”

“Oh,” she says, sarcasm kicking in. “I get it. So like, you transform when you put on your suit and suddenly your mindset and personality just switch?” He knows she’s fucking with him, is trying to prove a point, that if this was Tony, he’d be arguing already, but with MJ, it just makes him blush.

“No,” he says, laughing. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel like Spiderman like this, I guess. S’been kinda…hard. You know?” he asks, as if she’d know.

As if she’d somehow _know _what it was like to be Peter for the last few days, worrying everyone he loves with his wheezing and penchant for not breathing, having them ask him to be brave _for _them and be okay with oxygen and breathing machines and needles that, now that he thinks about it, fucking _hurt _and still have his leg aching, all because he _needed _it in order to be here, in this moment, and it’s _a lot_, it’s a fucking _lot_, all of a sudden and his heart is pounding, lungs are failing him, and he feels like he’s drowning again, only it’s different this time, because it’s like this part of him that he’s been suppressing is trying to break lose and he’s been working _so hard _to keep it from interfering with just _getting better_ and-

“It has to be hard, Peter. How could any of this _not _be hard?” She puts a hand on his. “I wasn’t even here for any of it and one look at your face right now tells me that this has to have been insanely difficult.” And at that, his heart skips a beat, melts a little, because no one has said that to him yet, at least not in three short sentences that didn’t require back-and-forth conversation that was somewhat argument, somewhat Peter just giving-in so that he could keep from losing his mind.

“I’m not…ruining the Christmas vibe with my…negativity?” He’s holding in something larger than a sob now, tries to keep his wheezing down because damnit, he really does need that stupid treatment right now but he doesn’t want to have to give up this moment with MJ for it.

If that isn’t a metaphor for all of this, then he doesn’t know what is.

“What negativity?” she asks, confused. “You mean your honesty?”

And she’s being real with him. She’s being _so r_eal with him right now that he wishes he could kiss her, wishes he could just cup her face with his hand and have the confidence to actually _go for it_.

“Peter, I saw how sick you were in the nurse’s office on Friday. There was no way this could be just _a little chest infection_. I knew you were lying when you texted that. You really don’t remember me being there with you? At all?”

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t remember being wheeled down or MJ rifling through his backpack or having a breathing treatment, just remembers Tony being there when he opened his eyes, talking about his high heart rate and fever. He’s had a full-on attack in front of MJ and he doesn’t remember any of it, which is unsettling to say the least, but he wonders if that’s why she was so good about the oxygen and the breathing treatment, wonders if she’s done some research so that she can understand. It makes his heart flutter. “But I wish I did remember, because that would have helped make all of this feel just a little bit better a lot sooner. A little bit more _okay_ instead of confusing and unnerving.”

He hopes it’s enough. Wants so badly for that to be enough.

“You probably wouldn’t want to remember much of Friday anyway,” she explains, shrugging, and Peter can see that the side of her lip is curling into a small smile. “You _may_ have thrown up all over one of the nurses.”

“I what?!” Peter asks, suddenly embarrassed.

“You were coughing and then you just _barfed_. It was…” she says, laughing hysterically all of a sudden. “It was _everywhere_.” She can’t contain her laughter, and for a moment, Peter’s in shock, but then he’s laughing, too, because even though his first thought was that she was making fun of him, he knows that she isn’t, that she’s trying to find _something_ in all of this to just laugh about, and Peter can get on board with that. “And in true Peter fashion, you…” she says, breaking into another fit of hysterics. “You apologized and offered to _clean it up_, and I remember thinking what a freaking _dork_, but also, I found it absolutely adorable even though…” she continues, hunched over as she laughs, “even though it was _everywhere_.”

They laugh together for so long, one going back into a laughing fit that pulls the other in whenever there’s a lull, and Peter loses track of time, doesn’t even realize that the movie is still playing in the background and karaoke is still going on in the living room. And then he coughs, _hard_, and it won’t let up.

“Oh my God, please don’t!” MJ yells, and while she’s half-joking, still _laughing_, she’s also dashing for the garbage can by his desk.

He wants to laugh, too, is having a hard time _not laughing,_ but he’s also trying so hard not to gag, not to let his lungs _go there_ even though they’re already there, already spasming. Without another thought, he flips his nebulizer on and puts the mouthpiece to his lips.

“Should’ve…finished this,” he says, trying not to laugh, because he _barfed all over one of the nurses_ and this girl that he’s absolutely head over heels for is laughing hysterically with him about it.

“Promise you’re not going to barf?” she asks, her arms around the garbage can as she hops onto the bed.

“No promises,” he says, and fuck, why can’t he stop _laughing_? He coughs again, feels everything in his chest shift, and suddenly, he can breathe better, feels like the medication is actually working its way through his lungs. He’s still wheezing, but it’s not that barking, dying seal sound he’s gotten accustomed to, and he’s thankful. He takes a few more breaths, just to be sure, and smiles. “But…I think I’m good. Just need this,” he says around the mouthpiece.

He doesn’t ask her if all of this, the oxygen and wheezing and breathing treatments and barfing, is okay, because it’s obvious that it is, even though it makes no sense to Peter. She doesn’t ask him how he feels or look at him with sad eyes, just leans against his pillow with him and rests her head on his shoulder while he takes slow breaths, in and out, in and out.

They refocus on the movie, but he can tell neither of them are really paying attention because there’s an electricity between their bodies, wild and growing with every second.

“Is this okay?” she asks, looking up at him.

He smiles around the mouthpiece. “Yeah. This is more than okay.”

There’s a beat, and then, “You smell good.”

“Thanks.” Peter blushes.

“Have you ever wondered what the McCallister parents do for work? Like, look at their house,” she says, gesturing toward the TV. “And then to be able to pay for everyone to go to Paris? Do you think the husband or wife are drug dealers? I think they _both_ sell drugs.”

Peter lets MJ do all of the commentating because his lungs are still recovering from the laugh they’ve just had and he hasn’t been up this late since _before_. She catches on, doesn’t question his lack of comments, and Peter appreciates that, loves that she’s just going with this new sense of normal that Peter has been kicking and screaming against. He can feel his eyelids drooping, is blinking just to stay awake, but at some point, he fades, wakes during the scene where Kevin is reunited with his parents. MJ is still against his shoulder, only now she’s asleep. His nebulizer is off, the mouthpiece on his nightstand, and he wonders if Tony came in to check on them or if MJ took it upon herself to set it aside. Either way, he can’t stop staring at her, marveling at how peaceful and calm she is, can’t stop the happiness flooding his system at the fact that she’s _here_, _for him_, and is _so okay_ with all of this. Is so okay with all of this, in fact, that she’s _stayed_.

She’s stayed even after everything that happened on Friday in chem and the nurse’s office.

Even after he asked her if she was only here because he’s Spiderman.

He knew she wasn’t.

MJ just isn’t like that.

He likes to think that counts for something.

Something uncountable, maybe.

Something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments! I like knowing if people are still reading/enjoying. :)
> 
> ::"Cut the bullshit, Peter.":: laughs  
::“Y-you’re just here because I’m Spiderman, then?":: sobs


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone! Thank you so much for reading! :)

**Chapter 8**

**Thursday, December 26 - Friday, December 27**

MJ returns on Thursday, and then again on Friday. Peter wants to question why she doesn’t want to spend some of the break at home, but he’s nervous to go there. Truth be told, he’s afraid that if he asks, she’ll _leave_, and with Tony in Baltimore while Pepper handles things in the office a few floors below, he’s nervous to be by himself.

Not that he’s truly been by himself.

Bruce comes by a least three times a day to see how he handles short spurts of time off of the oxygen, and Steve and Natasha check-in on him in person in the mornings and evenings to make sure he’s eating. And May’s stopped by between business trips to make sure Peter’s taking his meds and actually resting. The check-ins seem orchestrated, though, like there’s a kind of rotation that’s been scheduled via an Excel spreadsheet, and he doesn’t put it past Tony to have put that into motion. Tony’s been checking-in via text and FaceTime every four hours or so, right around the times he should be doing breathing treatments, and it’s that fact alone that’s convinced him that Tony’s the one behind the elaborate check-in schedule. Peter knows he wants to be here, but he understands why he can’t.

So MJ and Peter have been setting up camp in the living room, eating popcorn and going through a list of Disney movies that Peter’s never seen. On Thursday, they finished _The Rescuers, The Rescuers Down Under, _and _Oliver and Company_. Now that it’s Friday, _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ is on, soon to be followed by _The Aristocats_. Depending on how Peter feels, of course. He doesn’t want to admit it, but trying to stay awake while MJ was over late on Thursday is catching up to him; if he wasn’t so damn exhausted, he’d probably have the energy to be angry about it, but instead he’s blinking to stay awake, his eyelids closed more than they’re open.

He lays on his side, cheek against a couch pillow as MJ sits comfortable on the attached lounge of the sectional, adjusts his oxygen tubing so that he doesn’t end up with a mark on his face. He’s actively trying to ignore the fact that his lungs feel worse today and failing. It’s the weaning off of the oxygen, he figures, which he’s happy about, but it hasn’t been the clear-cut victory he was hoping for. “Might fall asleep on you,” Peter comments with a yawn.

He can see MJ fighting a frown as she pauses the movie. “I can go if you’re not feeling well.”

“No!” he’s quick to say. “No, I-I want you to stay, I just didn’t think you’d want to watch me nap. You know, in case you had better things to do. It’s Christmas break.”

“This is my better things to do, Peter.”

He smiles sleepily and looks over at her. “You sure about that?” It comes out breathy. 

“More than sure. We can watch something else, you know.” 

“No, I like it, but I think it’s putting me to sleep. Keep me awake?”

“Keep you awake, huh?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“No,” he replies, cheeks going red as he laughs. “I mean, like…_talk_ to me or something. Have a conversation?”

She puts the movie back on and lowers the volume. “We could make a summer bucket list.”

“I hate summer.”

“Excuse me, you _what_?!” MJ asks, head snapping to face Peter. “First of all, _hate_ is a strong word. Second, summer in New York is the _best thing ever_. It means no school, not getting up at the crack ass of dawn. It means sun and free public pools and reading in the park. How can you not love summer?!”

“Okay, so I don’t _hate_ summer, but my last few summers haven’t exactly been so great and…”

Ben died three summers ago, right as school was letting out for the year. Then, the summer before ninth grade, Peter spent six weeks in a sweaty cast after falling off of his bike and breaking his arm. And if last summer, his first summer with asthma, was any indication of what future summers might be like, he’s afraid that this one is going to be a repeat of days spent inside in the air conditioning avoiding air quality alert days.

“Peter and MJ’s Summer Bucket List,” she narrates as she types into a note on her phone. “You need this. We’re doing this.”

“Do we have to?” he groans. “Can’t we just sit inside and watch movies? Like we are now?”

“Oh, the High Line!” she says, ignoring him as she types it into her phone.

He scrunches his nose. “Isn’t that super touristy?”

“Yeah, but who cares.” She shrugs. “It’s the best view, they’ve got popsicles, _and_ it ends around Chelsea Market, so we can grab something good and cheap for lunch or dinner if we want.” She grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl between Peter’s head and her hip with one hand, shoves it in her mouth, and chews. “Your turn.”

“Things to do during summer…in New York City,” he starts. “Let’s add standing on a…subway platform that feels like a sauna, the smell of rotting garbage the…night before trash pick-up…and watching May navigate…alternate side parking rules.” He takes a couple of breaths, hopes MJ hasn’t picked up on how shitty his lungs are today. “Oh, wait! I know, let’s add…watching the debt counter…walking avenues during a heat wave…and experiencing no service between Penn and Jamaica…after lightning hits the tracks!”

MJ lowers her phone and raises an eyebrow. “Wow, you okay, Pete? That was pretty dark and twisty, especially for you.”

“I just really…ha-_dislike_ summer, MJ.” He doesn’t want it to come out as a whine, but it does, and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s feeling worse than he did when they started the movie or if he’s having an aversion to discussing summer, but it’s definitely harder to breathe than it was an hour ago. “Summer…reminds me of Uncle Ben dying, a-and breaking my arm…”

“Well, maybe I can make this summer different,” she offers softly, scooting closer. “There’s gotta be _something_ you love about summer in the city. What’s your favorite summer memory?”

He thinks for a moment, shifts again on the couch. He doesn’t want to talk about Ben, but all of his memories of summer include him because May was always working. “Um, Ben used to take me to Mets games in the summer? It was our…thing.” He laughs quietly to himself before adding, “May hates baseball. Says she only went to games to get ice cream in those plastic baseball hat cups.”

MJ smiles in response. “My dad used to take me to Mets games. Before his promotion to detective. He used to run security at Shea, before they knocked it down and built Citi Field.”

“Oh my God, Shea Stadium! My first Mets game!”

“See, I told you there was something you liked about summer,” she says, not an ounce of force in her voice. “If you want, we can go to a Mets game this summer. But only if you think you’re ready.”

“Y-yeah,” he says, because while he had pretty much vowed to never set foot at Citi Field ever again since Ben died, going with MJ feels…right. He knows they’ll have a nice time and he suddenly can’t imagine going with anyone _but MJ_. “Yeah, that’d be…awesome.”

“Alright,” she says, typing into her phone. “Mets Game. I’m going to add a trip to the Museum of Natural History, because science.”

“Haven’t been there…since a trip in third grade,” Peter adds.

“What?!”

“Stop looking at me…like that!” he says, laughing. “Not my fault! Didn’t live in Manhattan until…a couple of months ago.”

Her face contorts in confusion. “Wait, really? I thought…”

“May lives in Forest Hills.”

MJ nods slowly, trying to put the pieces together. She knows a little about Peter’s family situation after overhearing an awkward discussion between him and their Spanish teacher, Senora Rodriguez, last year. Peter had tried to explain that his family tree assignment wouldn’t meet the requirements on her rubric because he didn’t have at least five people in his family to list and write about. His parents, he’d said, died when he was four. “I live with my Aunt May. S-she’s my guardian?” he’d explained nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “My Uncle Ben used to live with us, but he died a year ago, and now it’s just us two. I don’t have any grandparents or extended family.” She’d let him add and write about friends, but that had been hard, too, since Ned was his only real friend at the time, so he’d written about Mr. Delmar, the deli owner down the street, and Murph, the deli cat, and taken the hit for points on the rubric. She knows because she’d studied his poster with the attached rubric on the bulletin board, had watched as Peter pulled his poster down one day after class when Senora Rodriguez wasn’t looking. She remembers feeling a pang of guilt over the fact that Peter had felt it necessary to explain his family situation to the teacher so that he didn’t fail the project, that he’d been so self-conscious about how it had come out that he didn’t want others to see it.

She refocuses her attention on him, sees that he’s staring up at her with soft, tired eyes. She hates that he’s been so sick, that right now, he’s working harder than yesterday to breathe. She wonders if maybe she should leave, let Peter get some actual rest, but she really doesn’t want to. Being around Peter, even with him like this, makes her feel like things are okay for just long enough to keep her from falling apart completely. She knows it’s selfish, but part of her has stayed because without her here, Peter’s pretty much on his own, and though she knows that isn’t entirely true, she’s convinced herself that that’s why she should stay. She looks around and takes in the grandeur that is Tony Stark’s living room: Marble fireplace, ten-foot Christmas tree with pristine glass ornaments and soft white lights, garland wrapping the mantel and elaborate, lighted Christmas figures that scream Pepper having hired a personal designer. It’s the pictures in tasteful frames around the room, though, of various Avengers and a few too many with Tony and Peter in everyday clothes, that prompt MJ to ask her next question. “So then, you live with Tony because you’re Spiderman?”

“No.” It comes out as a dejected, small puff of air.

“No? Okay, so then you live with him because…” she tries, coming up with nothing, and it’s in the silence that she realizes this isn’t her business, that maybe asking isn’t appropriate and she should stop now.

Peter licks his lips. “It’s because May travels for work,” he starts, “and I had a pretty severe asthma attack…while she was away last April. It was…_bad_…so now Tony kind of…looks after me while she’s away. It’s not really conventional…but then again, nothing about my life is…so I guess it’s fine. I really like Tony and Pepper…so it…works.”

“I guess I just thought…after I saw the Spiderman suit…”

“That I lived some…kind of glamorous life?” He’s wheezy now, looks even more tired than he did five minutes ago, and MJ feels the worry creep in, watches as Peter adjusts the cannula under his nose and closes his eyes.

“You just seem so happy all of the time,” she comments, sliding from the cushion so that she can sit on the floor in front of Peter. She knows it must be hard for him to keep tilting his head back to look at her, and now with his eyes closed, she’s worried he won’t tell her how awful he’s really feeling. “It’s like nothing bothers you. You never complain. You’re just…quiet.”

Peter’s eyes stay closed as he says, “I am happy. Doesn’t mean…my life is…glamorous. And I do complain, just not…to you.”

“You _can_ complain to me, you know,” she says, and it feels vulnerable for both of them, enough so that there’s a beat before Peter answers.

“About what?”

“About not feeling well.”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “M’just sick right now, MJ.”

She pauses and bites her lip, finds herself wanting to know more about the boy in front of her, the one she’s been hoping for over a year would notice her. She’s been in most of his classes and lunch period for the last two years at Midtown, has been his lab partner and on the decathlon team, and yet, she’s never noticed his breathing sounding like it did on Friday in chemistry or the nurse’s office, like it does right now. “Was it always like this?”

“This is like…the first time…I’ve ever had pneumonia, so-”

“I meant, did you always have asthma.”

“Not until…after.” He makes a crawling spider motion with his hand on his leg.

She’s confused. “After Uncle Ben died?”

“After the spider bite…that gave me my powers.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?”

He takes a shaky, wheezy breath in, eyes still closed. “Yup.”

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she says, taking his hand.

“Not your fault.”

“I’m not apologizing because I think it’s my fault, I’m apologizing because I’m sorry you’re dealing with this. You look absolutely miserable. Can I get you anything?”

“Stop worrying about me,” he huffs, but MJ can see a small smile on his lips. His eyes flutter open and meet hers. “Can’t decide if it’s patronizing…or cute.”

“Well, I see a smile, so I’m gonna go with cute.”

“I do feel…like crap,” he finally admits, rubbing his chest with his free hand. “Bruce had me off of my oxygen earlier…twice…for a half hour at a time…and I feel like my body…hates me now.”

“That’s supposed to be good, though, right?” she asks, rubbing her thumb over his knuckle. “They want to wean you down?”

“Yeah, but my lungs…seem to have other plans.” He turns away to cough, gives in when his lungs don’t want to let up rather than fight it. It takes him a few minutes to catch his breath, but he’s happy that MJ is there, sitting beside him and holding his hand as the movie plays. None of this feels patronizing, at least not like his conversation with Steve on Christmas. He knows Steve meant well, that he was trying to help Peter reframe all of this, but it still isn’t sitting well, makes Peter nervous when Steve’s around because he’s afraid he’s going to bring the conversation back up. MJ though? MJ acts like needing oxygen while half-asleep watching Disney movies on the couch is almost normal, like loud breathing treatments and coughing fits are things everyone does. She’s worried, sure, but she’s also _respectful_ about it, just like Tony’s been. Only, MJ doesn’t _have_ to be here, doesn’t _have_ to be worried about him. She barely knows him despite all of their time spent together at school, and that’s what’s making him feel like putty in her hands, fills his chest with some of the only good feelings he’s felt in a week.

And yeah, maybe Tony doesn’t have to be here either, worries a little too much and takes way too much responsibility for Peter, but he’s also in Dad Mode, feels like it’s his personal mission to get Peter back up and running, both literally and figuratively.

“Just like they had other plans on Friday?” MJ jokes when his coughing and breathing have settled down.

“Well, I knew I was sick on Friday…and I didn’t say anything…’cause I wanted to go to your party,” he admits with a laugh and smirk.

“What?!”

“Didn’t think…I was that sick. Thought…it was a cold.”

“Peter,” she says, squeezing his hand. “You’re such an idiot, you know that?”

“Everyone’s told me that at least…once this week, was just…waiting for you to say it…again.” He gives a small smile, adjusts his hand so that his fingers are weaved between hers.

“Well, you’re _my_ idiot now,” she comments. “Is that too…territorial?”

“No, kinda like it,” he says. “Makes it feel like we’re…”

“Dating?”

“Yeah. Is that okay?” he asks, a flurry of nerves suddenly wild in his stomach.

“Of course it is, loser,” she says, inching closer so that their noses are almost touching “Is this okay?”

And Peter doesn’t answer, just closes his eyes, moves in, and plants a kiss on MJ’s lips, their hands still interlocked as the credit screen rolls.

**Saturday, December 28**

Tony returns a little after one in the morning from his meetings in Baltimore with Lockheed, thinks briefly about heading to bed but decides on coffee, emails, and projects instead. His “to do” list has grown exponentially over the last few days, and while he knows FRIDAY tried to be helpful by automating some of the more brief email responses, the deadlines looming over his head refuse to let him sleep.

“You’re working yourself to death, Tony,” Pepper comments as she comes up behind him and places her hands on his shoulders so that she can massage them with her thumbs. He’s surprised she’s up, but then again, she’s a light sleeper, probably heard him banging around in the kitchen trying to get a pot of coffee ready. “Come to bed.”

He checks his watch. “At this rate, I could just work through the next four hours and shower before my first morning meeting, finish the schematics Grumman keeps hounding me for. They want them for our brunch meeting on Sunday.”

She stops. “I thought Sunday was a no-work zone? Tony. We’ve talked about this.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t plan on losing three critical workdays right before the end of the quarter,” he says, sighing. He squeezes the bridge of his nose. “What am I supposed to do, Pep, just close up shop and go into the New Year with a shit ton of paperwork and defense contracts hanging?” He talks wildly with his hands, but it’s more subdued than usual, is a sign that he’s sleep-deprived and running on caffeine and guilt.

“Sleep, Tony,” she says softly. “That’s what you should do.”

“Sleep is for the weak.”

“Sleep is for _humans_. You, my love, are human. And you’re not that young anymore. You need to take care of yourself before you stress your system. You’re running on empty. Remember what happened last time?”

He rubs his face as if that will help him keep his eyes open and sighs. “That was years ago, Pep, and yes, I remember.”

“Did you talk to Bruce?”

“About Peter?” he asks.

“About _you_.”

Tony turns to look at her. He loves when she wears her hair in a wispy, messy bun, how she looks when she takes her makeup off and has that classic Pepper glow that melts his cold, steel heart, even after all of these years. She’s wearing cotton lounge pants and a baggy t-shirt, isn’t the put-together Pepper most people get to see, and yet, he thinks she looks perfect just like this. “After,” he assures her as he takes her hand in his. “When everything with Peter and work settles, I promise I’ll have Bruce take a look.”

“You say that like you want to mean it, but I know you,” she explains with a sly smile, wagging a finger in the air. “I know you much too well, Tony Stark, and I know you’re ten minutes from falling asleep at the kitchen table.”

“I am not!”

“The hypnic jerks you’ve been doing for the last twenty minutes say otherwise.”

“That was just me stretching my neck. Besides, Tony Stark doesn’t do sleep.”

Pepper hums. “Maybe the Tony Stark from ten years ago, but not this old man.”

“You calling me old?” he jokes with a small, tired smile.

“With all that gray hair?” she jokes back, ruffling it. “Come on, Grandpa. The emails can wait.”

He returns his focus to his StarkPad. “Just a few more.”

“Bed, or I’ll tell FRIDAY to lock you out of your email until sunrise.”

“You know I can override that, right?”

“I know something else you can override,” she says, wagging her finger again with a clever smile and raised eyebrow before turning and heading toward the bedroom.

x

“You have a low oxygen level alert from Peter,” FRIDAY reports sometime around four in the morning. 

Tony’s clambers out of bed and nearly takes the duvet with him, doesn’t even look at his alarm clock or respond to Pepper’s half-asleep murmur, and by the time he’s actually sitting beside Peter and switching his lamp on, he already knows that the kid’s okay, that he isn’t wheezing or breathing too heavily. He rubs his face and exhales. _The kid’s okay._

“T-Tony?” Peter’s asking as he comes to, blocking the lamp light with his hand, his oxygen cannula hanging off of his face. Peter blinks sleepily. “W-wha’s wrong?”

“Your oxygen dipped, kiddo,” Tony says, fixing the tubing so that it’s securely in Peter’s nostrils. “You’re okay. You can go back to sleep. Gonna stay up for a while and make sure you come back up, though.”

“H-how l-low did I go?”

“Don’t worry about it, Pete.”

“S’that why I’m sweating and feel like I ran a marathon?”

Tony rubs his face, exhaustion blanketing him. He doesn’t have the patience for Peter’s thousand questions right now, especially not with back-to-back early morning meetings scheduled. “Probably, but you’re fine now.”

“FRIDAY woke you up?”

“Mmhm. Go back to sleep.” He clicks the lamp off and stumbles his way through the dark so that he can sit at Peter’s desk. He checks the time on his watch and sees that it’s a little after four. 

He has to be up in an hour. 

He’s never really been one for sleep, but lately, he’s starting to feel like he can’t just bounce back after two hours of sleep like he used to. He pulls Peter’s oxygen levels up on his watch and sees that he’s at 92 and rising. He decides that he’ll leave when he’s sure it’s at least 96.

“S’you’re…just gonna…watch me s-sleep?” Peter asks with a yawn.

“Go to sleep, Pete.”

“Kinda hard to sleep when-”

“Shhh.”

“Did you just shush me?!”

“No.”

“Yes, you did! You just-”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Tony says, getting up and clicking the lamp back on. “Kid, you’re killing me!” He’s trying to hide his rage, but it’s an unstoppable force. “I’m running myself ragged here, trying to keep Stark Industries afloat after missing three days of work before the end of the quarter, all while keeping you from…” Tony puts the breaks on, stops himself from saying it, doesn’t want to pile the rest of his exhaustion on Peter, who’s been panicked about going back to school soon, about having another attack, about...

“Dying?”

He sighs and rubs his face. “Not what I meant, Pete.”

“That’s _exactly_ what you meant.” And Tony can see the pain in Peter’s words, knows that the kid has been majorly affected by the last week’s events. He knows he had a nightmare Thursday night, a short one that FRIDAY didn’t wake Pepper over. But Tony had gotten the alert in his hotel room 200 miles away and had been up for hours after, watching Peter’s vitals. He knows that Bruce has been weaning Peter off of his oxygen, that it’s fine for the half hour intervals here and there but that it leaves Peter struggling later, and he’s been realizing more and more just how arduous this recovery process is truly going to be. It’s all he could think about in the car rides between his hotel room and Lockheed, while trapped in his meetings as figures were discussed around him.

For Tony, it’s made not being here for the last two days difficult in ways that he can’t even get into words, and here he is, taking all of that out on the one person besides Pepper that he knows he can’t live without.

“I’m sorry, Pete. Didn’t mean to go there. I’m ten steps beyond exhausted right now, I’m not making any sense, and I wasn’t expecting that low oxygen level alert. FRIDAY got me all worked up over nothing. I’d be…I’d be devastated if something ever happened to you, Underoos.” He bites back tired, emotional tears as he pulls Natasha’s blanket up over Peter’s shoulders, and he doesn’t do a good enough job, because he can hear it in his voice as he says, “I had to make sure you were okay before I let myself go back to bed, kiddo. That’s why I stayed.” He gives a teary smile, sees Peter’s features soften in the lamplight.

“Can you keep it on?” Peter asks, looking back at the lamp.

Tony nods without needing an explanation. 

He stays for another ten minutes, checks his watch over and over for Peter’s oxygen levels, only leaves when he sees that golden 96. It’s not where he wants him, not where he should be, but it’s progress. The smallest baby steps of progress that even Tony can’t deny.

“Peter all right?” Pepper mumbles half-asleep when Tony slides back beneath the covers.

“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s gonna be just fine,” he answers with a yawn, wrapping an arm around Pepper, refusing to think about the half hour he has left before his alarm goes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos and comments! :D They are very much appreciated!
> 
> Too much whump? Too much fluff? Let me know!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I just wanted to thank you all for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting. A big shout out to HDAnalyst for always reading through my writing before I post! Have a happy happy New Year!
> 
> Just a note: I took Dr. Grastin out and put in Dr. Cho instead; you'll see what I mean in the upcoming chapters. I also went back and edited past chapters to fix this.

**Chapter 9**

**Sunday, December 29**

“Do you want to call Lockheed and tell them that we can’t finalize the numbers today because you’d rather I take the day off so that I can…do what exactly?” Tony asks from the kitchen table with his usual sarcasm.

Pepper puts the sponge in her hand down on the kitchen island and sighs. “Be with your _family_, Tony. It’s Sunday!”

“I’m with my family right now,” he argues, but he turns to wink and smile at Peter, who takes in another spoonful of Cheerios and smiles as he chews.

This isn’t the first time Peter’s witnessed this exact conversation, and he’s sure it won’t be the last.

“I’m just saying that it would be nice if you could let work go for a little while and relax. I swear, it’s like the word isn’t even in your vocabulary!”

“I did relax that one time, when I nearly had a psychotic breakdown? After New York?”

“What, you mean when you admitted you were a piping hot mess and later told me I’d find something to complain about even without the tinkering and the suits because I’d somehow convinced myself that being with you was the best option?”

Peter lifts his eyebrows and makes a mental note to never get on Pepper’s bad side. “I’m just gonna…” he says, gesturing to the living room before placing his empty bowl and spoon in the sink.

“Ooh, right in the heart with that one,” Tony says, rubbing his chest as he rises from his stool and goes to Pepper to make amends. He waits for Peter to be clear of the room before he says, “Hey,” in the softest tone he can manage and brushes her hair so that a lock is secured behind her ear. “You know I have to work today because of Peter’s appointment tomorrow morning.”

“I just wish you’d let yourself rest.” She tries to get her eyes to meet his, but he won’t let her. “And you know what happens when you get like this.”

“Like what?” he comments with a quick laugh, but Pepper knows that tone, squeezes his shoulder in reassurance that it’s okay for him to open up.

“You’ve gotta let me in, Tony. You were in your lab until three in the morning. FRIDAY says you’ve downed two full pots of coffee in the last 24 hours alone. You promised me no more suits until 2020.”

“It’s not a suit,” he says, shaking his head, and Pepper can see in his eyes as they meet that he’s being honest with her.

“Then what on earth are you working on?!”

Tony looks toward the living room for a moment and rubs his chin, sniffles to keep the tears from building, and forces a small smile that fails. “I keep seeing that look on his face, begging me to fix it and help him breathe, and I don’t think I can handle...” he admits, his face twisting as a lone tear slides down his cheek. He wipes it away and sniffles. “I’m scared we’re gonna lose him, again, Pep. If he has another attack like that last one… I can’t bear to _lose him again_.”

“Hey, you said yourself last night that Peter’s going to be just fine,” she reminds him, her arms suddenly around his neck, forehead and nose against his.

“You heard me?” he asks, sniffling.

She nods. “I’m worried about him too, Tony, so is May, but he’s doing infinitely better than he was a week ago. We’ve got this. Peter’s _got this_.”

Tony nods, as if persuading himself that Peter will be just fine. “Wanna keep him safe, you know?”

“Is this the part where you give your ‘threat is imminent’ speech?” she jokes quietly, and Tony grins. She wipes his tears and kisses his forehead, fixes the collar on his dress shirt and straightens his tie. “I know it’s not easy being away from him right now. I’m sure May’s feeling the same thing.”

“He needs me, Pep.”

“And you need him. I know.”

Tony nods, rubbing his face.

“Go wash your face and head to your meeting,” she whispers, kissing him by the ear. “Just make sure you’re back for lunch, okay? Gotta take care of all my boys, even if some of them are all grown up.”

He nods, wiping his face and exhaling slowly as he buttons his jacket.

x

Ned texts Peter that he’s woken up with a cold, apologizes about having to cancel their plans to work on a new Lego project, and promises to come by after school sometime soon to get started on it.

Peter stares at the text and falls back from his sitting position on the living room couch. He sighs, his now cancelled plans only deepening his anxiety about his appointment with Bruce and Dr. Cho tomorrow.

Peter wants good news, but he knows his body, feels just about as far away from the type of good news he’s been wishing for as one can get. He’ll have to skip his morning meds for the pulmonary function tests, which means he’s going to feel like he’s half-breathing until his appointment is over. That, and he’ll probably be forced to discuss the dreaded Nucala injections. Even the thought of weaning down his oxygen use isn’t enough to keep his stomach from doing somersaults

_Ned has a cold_, he texts to MJ. _No plans and super bored.  
_  
_Still stressing about tomorrow?_

_Yup._  
  
_Need a distraction?_

_Please_.

She sends a picture of a four-quadrant graph with two snakes graphed and the caption _Snakes on a plane_. Peter smiles for the first time all day, watches as a bubble and three dots appear below her last text. _If I were an enzyme, I'd be DNA helicase so I could unzip your genes. ;) _

_Thanks. Needed that last one for sure. ;)_

They spend the mid-morning sending punny texts back and forth as a distraction, and Peter’s glad that he took the time and effort to shower right after getting up, because MJ shows up unexpectedly with a movie and a box of Insomnia Cookies around eleven thirty.

“I thought you had that thing with your dad?” Peter asks, taking the cookies from her.

She shrugs as she enters the residence. “He got called into work.”

“_The Day After Tomorrow_?” he says when he sees the movie in her hand. “Really?”

“I know the science is kind of shitty,” she says, looking at the cover. “But I love Jake Gyllenhaal too much to let it go.”

Peter laughs and lifts up the cookies. “We better hide these; Pepper’s busy making lunch. Did you wanna stay to eat?”

She smiles. “Sure.”

He calls out to Pepper in the kitchen, who okays MJ staying for lunch, and they start the movie in the living room. A half an hour in, they’re snuggling on the living room couch, secretly munching on cookies.

“No oxygen today?”

“I’m supposed to go back on after lunch, but I feel good today. Kind of hoping Tony will let me stay off longer.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling good today.”

“Me too.”

They stay like that until Pepper calls out that lunch is ready. They spend a moment untangling from each other before getting comfortable at the kitchen island, where they help themselves to the plates and spread of cold cuts and salads before them.

Tony appears, pulling off his suit jacket and leaving it on the back of a dining room chair. Pepper places the last of the water glasses out and gives him a kiss.

“Hey, do you know what Sin City is?” MJ asks Peter as she builds a cheese sandwich on rye bread. 

“Vegas? he answers, filling his plate with macaroni salad.

She nods. “Good. Do you know what Den City is?”

“No?”

“Mass over volume.”

Peter laughs and shakes his head.

“Wow,” Tony comments, eyebrows lifting, his tie hanging around his shoulders as he unbuttons his shirt. “That was nerdy, even for me.” He grabs a pack of cold cuts from the fridge and brings it over to the table.

“Oh, this is just the beginning. I have more,” MJ offers as she scoops fruit salad onto her plate.

“Oh yeah?” Tony asks, playing along as he takes a plate. He points as he asks, “MJ, right?” 

She nods.

“Tony,” he introduces, putting a hand out. She shakes it, looks like she’s forgotten to breathe, and Peter can see her confident shell waver for a brief moment before she brushes her hair out of her face and picks up where she left off in filling her plate. He gets it; he used to get starstruck in the beginning of his internship, back when Tony was more of a boss than a mentor. Peter watches as Tony piles turkey and cheese onto a brioche bun already covered with greens while he details his morning to Pepper, thinking nothing of it until Tony places the sandwich on Peter’s plate. “Gotta get your weight up, kiddo.”

He goes to argue but remembers that MJ is over. “Did you put extra cheese on it?” he asks, lifting the bun to check.

“Yup. As you like it. And I took some of the greens off, but shh, don’t tell Pepper,” he explains quietly, winking.

“I heard that!” Pepper yells from inside of the fridge where she’s grabbing a jar of mayonnaise.

Tony turns to face MJ. “So, you spend a lot of time making horrible science puns?”

MJ grins. “I share them periodically.”

Tony laughs; he can’t deny a good retort.

“I’m really in my element with these chemistry puns,” MJ continues, and the water Peter’s just sipped comes out of his nose, spraying into his cup and on the counter. “Shoot! I’m sorry, Peter!” She goes to pat him down with a napkin, and he goes to answer, but starts to cough, has to turn away while he waits for the fit to die down. She grimaces at how painful it sounds.

“I’m good,” Peter finally says, his voice hoarse and breathing wheezy as he grabs a napkin to wipe the table and then his nose.

“I always seem to mess everything up,” MJ says, rubbing her forehead in embarrassment. “I’m really sorry. I’m like a walking Murphy’s Law; anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. And before you say anything,” she says, putting a hand up, “it’s usually attributed to correlation rather than actual science, but it does have a basis in science, like the theory of unmeasurable uncertainty?” She sounds unsure, and it’s not because her information is wrong, but because she knows she’s doing _that _thing, the rambling that her parents always warn her not to do. Peter gives her a smile and nod to continue. “H-heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle comes to mind.”

“Props for citing an actual scientific theory.” Tony gives an impressed nod.

“T-thanks,” she stammers shyly, blushing.

“MJ’s really smart,” Peter adds, lighting up. “She’s the captain of the decathlon team.”

“There’s, um, a mathematical proof for Murphy’s Law involving statistics?” MJ continues, picking nervously at the food on her plate with her fork. “It’s all based in probability, is basically risk-management, but it’s real. An absence of proof is not proof of an absence, which NASA learned the hard way with the tiles on the space shuttle missions, but....I’m rambling. I should…stop rambling.”

“Well, if the _adage_ for Murphy’s Law suits anyone, it’s Peter,” Tony jokes as he constructs a bologna sandwich for himself.

“Oh really?” Pepper asks, her back facing the island as she stirs sugar into her coffee. “Says the man in a can who makes a suit of armor meant to be lifesaving that often tries to do the opposite. How many times have I had to save your butt?”

“Going there, are we?” Tony asks playfully, cocking his head.

“Can we…not have a repeat of this morning?” Peter asks, scrunching his face in response to the tension.

“Only if we lay off the bad science jokes for a little bit,” Tony adds before biting into his own sandwich.

“Sorry, I only make bad jokes because all of the good ones argon,” MJ says, covering her mouth the moment the words come out. “Sorry!” she mumbles between her fingers. “I am so sorry! I’m not usually like this, I promise, I’m just really nervous!”

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Tony says with a chuckle between bites. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and takes a sip of his water. “Just didn’t want Murphy’s Law over here to choke on water again.” He nods toward Peter.

“Hey!” Peter protests.

“You know I love you,” Tony says, laughing.

“Is that a bologna sandwich?” Pepper asks when she’s finally settled on a stool. “I go and buy premium cuts and you’re eating bologna? Is that Oscar Mayer?!”

“Maybe,” he says while chewing, shrugging, reaching to grab and hide the packaging.

“Was that in the fridge?”

“Maybe.”

“I swear, Tony, sometimes you really outdo yourself,” she says, shaking her head.

Tony rolls his eyes. “So, MJ, I wanna hear more about Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle,” he prompts before taking another bite of his sandwich.

“I’m, uh, a little more well-versed in chaos theory?”

“You mean deterministic chaos,” Tony tries.

“We’re using the scientific names. Got it,” MJ notes as means of humor, but her palms are sweaty and her heart is beating hard in her chest because Iron Man is staging his own little quiz bowl while eating a bologna sandwich and she knows she needs to measure up. “So, most people know chaos theory as the Butterfly Effect, which meteorologist Edward Lorenz coined. But it’s interdisciplinary, as it applies to many fields of study.”

He wipes his face with a napkin again. “How does deterministic chaos work in a pinball machine?”

“Tony,” Pepper warns, glaring at him.

“A pinball machine,” MJ repeats, her mind completely blanking as she tries to ignore Pepper. She takes a deep breath. _Gravity_, she thinks. “T-the final outcome is unpredictable, since the launching of the ball and the subsequent collisions are randomized?” She pauses, takes another breath. “People assume it’s predictable, but the very things that make it seem predictable make the outcome variable.”

Pepper’s jaw nearly hits the quartz of the island countertop.

“Keep a lock on this one, kid,” Tony comments with a grin to Peter; he had a sense that MJ was brighter than she’d been letting on. “Have you applied for any internships?”

“L-like the Stark Internship?”

“Exactly like the Stark Internship.”

“I thought there was only room for one student? From Midtown. With…a 4.0 GPA…” she trails, confused.

“Seems like there might be two now,” he says, putting his hand out to shake hers.

“You’re not…serious.” MJ’s breathless, feels like she might fall from her stool. “He’s serious, right?” she asks Peter, who is beyond confused and trying to figure out what, exactly, is happening. She struggles to swallow, has to gulp to keep herself from choking.

“I know you applied for the internship,” Tony says. “I went through your application. Impressive personal statement you had there.”

She takes his hand, lets him shake her hand because she’s too stunned to speak. “T-thank you?” she says. “I mean,” she corrects, sitting up straighter. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony, please,” he says, getting up from his stool.

“Won’t people think…with me hanging out with Peter…that…”

“I’ll handle it,” Tony promises, and she wants to believe he will, _has_ to.

“But what if we…break up…” she trails, and Peter’s eyebrows knit.

“That’s what you’re worried about?!” Peter asks.

“No, I just…what if we…what if I can’t…keep up? I-I’m not exactly…I ramble, like a lot?” she says, and she’s sure her hands are shaking. _The Stark Internship_.

“Don’t kid yourself, kid. You know your stuff. Gotta trust yourself,” he says with a smile, pointing at her as he grabs his jacket.

“Yes…sir,” she replies, eyes wide as she looks at Peter.

“I have to spend some time in the lab,” Tony says to Pepper as he throws his plate away. He plants a quick kiss on her cheek. “Thanks for lunch. Don’t count on me for dinner. It was lovely meeting you, MJ.”

Before she can respond, Tony’s already down the hallway.

“Love you too, honey,” Pepper yells after him, laughing to herself. “I swear, he drives me crazy. It’s a good thing I love him, right?” 

“What just happened?” Peter asks.

“When you figure it out, let me know,” MJ replies, still in shock.

Pepper starts to clean up the salads and re-wrap the cold cuts, MJ and Peter pitching in. When the kitchen is finally clean, Pepper drops five pills and a glass of water in front of Peter. He groans. “Oh,” she says, tossing the yellow Oscar Mayer packaging into the trash. “And I know about the cookies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your favorite lines from this chapter in the comments!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! New chapter is up! Thank you for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! A huge shout out again to my beta reader, HDAnalyst!

**Chapter 10  
Monday, December 30**

Tony scrolls through a file on his StarkPad at the kitchen island and sips from the cup of black coffee in his hand. He’s trying to concentrate on a proposal that he meant to brush up on the night before, but Peter’s loudly chomping down on bowl of Captain Crunch, is slurping at the milk, and the sounds are enough to make his own stomach churn.

“Slow down or you’re gonna choke, kid,” he warns.

“M’hungy and you said I needed to get my weight back up!”

“That’s from the steroids. And yes, I’m glad you have your appetite back, but slow down, okay?”

He drinks the last of the milk from the bowl and places it down on the table. “When’s my appointment again?”

“Nine. We’ll go up together. I can’t do dinner, but maybe we can watch a movie later? To…celebrate?” He tries to concentrate back on the file but pauses when he realizes how weird his sentence just sounded. “Wow, not the right word, Tony, um,” he says, putting his StarkPad down and sighing. “You know what I mean, kiddo.”

“You really don’t have to come, Tony,” Peter says. “I-I know you’re busy, and it could be a while, with the tests, and you’ve already missed so much work-”

“Did you hit your head again? You’re not going to this appointment alone.”

“But Tony-”

“None of this ‘but Tony’ business. May can’t be here, and I can’t send you with Pepper because she doesn’t do well with medical stuff, so I’m going. End of story.”

The first part of the appointment goes well enough. Bruce and Dr. Cho both listen to Peter’s lungs and ask him about his symptoms, let him have a break from his oxygen to see how he does in the office, which he’s excited about because it’s been getting easier to breathe without it, but the appointment quickly progresses into a ten-vial blood draw, x-rays, and a series of pulmonary function tests.

It’s the pulmonary function tests that do him in. They _always _have, even before the pneumonia fiasco. He has to skip his inhalers and nebulizers the morning of each time because it interferes with the testing. The clip on his nose during the test may as well be a vise and the white cylinder connected to the computer is heavy in his weakened state. He coughs and gags between rounds of inhaling and blowing with all of the energy and lung power he can muster. His face is red and hot from the force, lungs and diaphragm sore. He’s starting to get a pressure headache when they ask for one last set. He can feel his fingers tingling, but he doesn’t want to say no, so he steadies his breathing, tells himself he can do this, and nods.

“Two normal breaths. Just like that. Alright, really deep breath in, and blow. Keep blowing, keep blowing,” Bruce instructs, but Peter feels a cough rip through the little tube he’s got between his lips and as he pulls away, rips the clip from his nose, he feels the coughs deepen, feels the Captain Crunch from breakfast come up. He barely makes it to the garbage can, needs Tony to help hold him up as he coughs and pukes and coughs.

“It’s okay,” Tony’s comforting as Peter heaves into the can. “I’ve got you.” He can’t get his coughing or breathing under control, is dragging in raspy, painful breaths even after the puking stops.

There’s a flurry of activity around him as Tony tries to wipe his mouth with a paper towel. They transfer him to a bed, raise the back and decide on a nebulizer treatment to get his tight wheezing under control. Peter closes his eyes, feels woozy from the strain on his lungs and the rapid beating of his heart. He’s used to this feeling, and yet, at the same time, he’s _not_. What’s happening right now isn’t even that bad compared to the last few attacks, but it’s also the first time since the pneumonia that he’s pushed his lungs to this limit, and he’s angry that he can’t get his breath back.

“Doing great, Pete,” Bruce is commenting as he places a nebulizer mask connected to oxygen over his mouth and nose. “Let me know if you feel like it isn’t helping, okay? Cho, can you get a pulse ox on him?”

“Dizzy,” he moans, fighting to stay conscious.

“Told you to slow down on that cereal,” Tony jokes softly, and he’s there, brushing Peter’s hair from his sweaty forehead. Peter’s eyelids flutter. “I know that sucked, but I need you to stay awake for me, kiddo.”

Peter blinks his eyes open, but everything is fuzzy, so he closes them again. His fingers are tingling. No, scrap that, his _whole body_ is tingling, and he feels himself drifting.

“Tony, I don’t…don’t feel so good…” His eyes aren’t focused enough when he opens them to catch the sheer panic on Tony’s face when Peter utters those familiar words. “Gonna…gonna pass out. T-tony? Tony…”

The bed is flattened, and pillows are placed beneath his legs to help bring the blood back to his upper body. There’s a cuff on his arm inflating, squeezing, and a clip on his finger that’s making something beep too fast for his liking, and he tries to focus on not passing out, on making this unpleasant feeling that’s everywhere go away. He swims in a dazed pool of wakefulness and sleep for a few moments, feels Tony brushing his hair out of his face again. It’s helping, makes him cling toward attentiveness. He works on slowing down his breathing, as hard and loud as it is, and fights to stay awake.

“Still want to go to this appointment alone?” he hears Tony joke softly. Peter gives a pitiful huff in response beneath the mask.

“Your blood pressure dropped,” Bruce explains after he listens to Peter’s lungs and glances at the monitor beside the bed. “And you had a small attack. But you’re okay. I think the PFTs sent your nervous system into overdrive. We call it a vasovagal reaction. It happens. Don’t sweat it, kid.”

When the nebulizer’s finished and he’s finally feeling like his lungs aren’t collapsing, they sit him fully upright. He feels his blood pressure adjust and grimaces.

“Color’s coming back,” Tony says. “You went full ghost on us, kiddo. Thought we’d lose you against the sheets.”

“Why does my body always have to be so dramatic?” Peter groans. “Tired of this.”

“You’re pretty rare, Peter,” Dr. Cho explains. “In the Spiderman sense, but also with your asthma. Only 5% of people have eosinophilic asthma.”

“Great.” He doesn’t even try to hide his lack of enthusiasm. “This just keeps getting better.”

Bruce cuts in. “I think it’s important to note that, at some point, this exacerbation was going to happen whether or not you took your inhalers consistently. Your lungs were a ticking time-bomb; we didn’t have you on the right medications because we didn’t know about the extent of your immune system involvement, which was a failure on our part. I don’t want you to beat yourself down if you still have attacks, Peter. Even with your healing factor kicking in and all of the medication changes we’re going to discuss today, this is going to take time. We need to be patient. That’s going to be the hard part.”

And he wants to snort at Bruce’s suggestion that being patient is the actual hard part in all of this, but the reality of his words, what he’s _really_ saying, sinks in a little too deeply. “I’ll still have attacks?” His heart drops into his stomach, fully and completely, because he thought he was getting better, thought that the wheezing would fully disappear soon, that the tightness in his chest would be a thing of the past once he got over this infection, just like all of the other times.

Bruce gives his classic half-smile-half-grimace, the one he uses when he has to deliver news he doesn’t want to. “E-asthma is tricky. And it’s different for everyone. Thankfully, you do okay on the steroid inhalers. Not many people do. We just need to get you on the right combination.”

“E-asthma makes it sound like I enjoy vaping,” Peter grumbles.

“Peter,” Tony warns, but it’s soft. Peter knows that his moodiness is heightening the already tense tone in the room, so he stares at his hands in his lap and lets the adults talk. They pull up his PFT results and x-rays on the computer, compare them to those from the past year. They decrease the amount of time he’s supposed to be on oxygen so that he’s only using it at night and as needed during the day. There’s debate over whether they should add Singulair pills to help with the fact that a chemical called leukotriene likes to team up with over-eager eosinophils. They deliberate over brands and dosages for his daily steroid inhaler and whether they should keep him on the prednisone or switch him over to prednisolone, whether it should be increased or tapered, if he’s at risk for rare lung infections on the steroids, especially once they add in the Nucala. There’s discussion of how many treatments he should be taking a day and what medications he should be doing them with, if they can be combined, if he needs prophylactic inhaled antibiotics or if they should wait until it’s absolutely necessary. They’re trying to calculate _all of it_ against Peter’s metabolism, genetics, and healing factor, which has _finally_ kicked in, and then Dr. Cho brings up how often they’ve needed to use epinephrine to get his more severe attacks under control, and it’s _too much_. It’s all way too fucking much. He feels himself zone out, wishes he could run far away from everything that’s happening because he knows they’re going to talk about the Nucala injections next and he’s not ready for that.

He’s not ready for any of this, honestly, but he’s _really_ not ready to talk about injections.

He feels woozy again, so he rubs his sweaty hands on his jeans and works on steadying his ragged breathing.

He’s been doing some reading and the side effects of Nucala can be scary. Biologics, he thinks, are fucking _scary_. They’re the big guns when it comes to autoimmune disease, and they come with a whole host of side effects that would make anyone turn and run in the other direction if they could. He’ll be immunocompromised, which will be a field day for his already compromised lungs. And he could get site reactions the size of sand dollars and nausea and headaches and _sepsis_ with even the simplest of infections. 

And it could help him be Spiderman again, help him wean off some of the other meds once the loading doses have settled, be a stroke of luck. Or it could blow up in their faces, be months of wasted time and pain. Physically and emotionally.

Peter feels like his luck ran out a long time ago.

And while he’s thankful they’ve chosen to forego low dose chemo in favor of the Nucala, which Peter assumes they’ve talked about without him because his digging online indicated that it’s considered a strong treatment option for his exact situation, he’s nervous. Because low dose chemo is scary, too, and he never in a million years would have thought that he’d be in the position he’s in now. He didn’t even know any of this existed a week ago. And he knows that if the Nucala doesn’t work out, if the few other biologics don’t work out, that the chemo med is later on the list, that’s it’s ridiculously effective against a whole host of autoimmune diseases, and while it’s supposed to be good news because it means there’s a back-up plan, it still hasn’t helped to settle his nerves in the least.

It’s a low dose of a chemo drug, he knows, not chemo itself in the general sense, and they’re not even _there yet_, might never even be there, but he knows his biology and basic chemistry. He’s read more than enough to be panicked about failing the Nucala and the short list of biologics after it.

Not only because losing some of his hair and feeling like crap for days is high up on the side effects list even for the lower doses of the chemo meds, but also because they have to call it _failing_ the meds, as if you were the one who failed and not the medications that have failed you.

His head is swimming and he feels himself getting overheated even though the room is ice cold. This is _too much too much too much_ and he needs to get out, needs _air._

He’s up and out of the room, running down the hallway before anyone can stop him. He lets his feet guide him and pull him as far as they can, as far as his lungs can, before he collapses into a puddle of tears on the tile floor. It feels like he’s in a maze he can’t get out of, realizes that there is no way out, and he can’t bear the thought that this _isn’t going away_.

“Hey,” Tony’s saying, so softly that Peter barely hears it as he feels Tony’s arms wrap around him and rock him as he sobs between wheezes. “Shh. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“Go away!” he’s yelling, trying to break free, but Tony refuses, holds him so tight that he can barely move an inch.

“Relax, Peter. It’s okay,” Tony soothes as Peter kicks his legs.

“It’s not okay! None of this is okay!” he screams. He’s using every ounce of energy in his body to use his arms and legs to escape, but Tony has one hell of a grip on him. “It’s not okay! It’s _not okay_!”

And he doesn’t care about who is watching, doesn’t care if Tony’s not going to let go, because he needs to get it out, all of it. Needs to let everyone know that he wants to be anywhere but here, be anyone but Peter.

_He doesn’t want to do this._  
  
“I don’t want to do this! I don’t want to do this!” he’s sobbing, and he wishes he had the energy to keep going because he doesn’t want to stop, feels his brain ready to fight as his body deflates on him. He’s holding his hands over his ears now, pulls his legs in as close as he can, hears himself as he repeats, “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

He doesn’t know how long they sit there in the middle of the hallway listening to him repeat _make it stop_ like a mantra while his breathing hitches because when he opens his eyes, he’s in his own bed, curled into the smallest ball possible, Natasha’s blanket covering his shoulders and back, oxygen line back on. He expects to be alone but sees Tony shift in his peripheral at his desk, focuses his eyes to see that he’s hunched over his StarkPad with his glasses perched on his head, is _not _in the meetings he was supposed to be in this afternoon, and total and complete humiliation is the only emotion he can feel.

“Hey there,” Tony says, gentle and nonchalant like Peter didn’t just have a complete and utter meltdown in the middle of the MedBay wing earlier in the day. “Feeling any better?”

“I want to crawl in a hole and die,” he responds, pulling the blanket up and over his head. Tony sits beside him but doesn’t pull the blanket away or put a hand on his back, just sighs quietly.

“I had a feeling that today was going to be a lot for you. I know it was a lot for me,” Tony admits.

“Calling today a lot seems like the understatement of the century,” he mumbles. “I was all dramatic with my blood pressure dropping and then I went and had a meltdown while you guys went over all of my meds. A full-on, nuclear meltdown. In front of people,” Peter complains. “In front of _SHIELD_ people.”

“May said you haven’t had an anxiety attack in a while.”

“You called May?!”

“She called _me_ and asked how everything went.” 

“And you told her. Great,” Peter moans. “All of this is just fucking great. Can I go crawl in that hole now?”

He feels Tony put a hand on his back. “Why didn’t you tell me about your panic attacks, Peter?”

“Because it hasn’t happened in a long time? Did you…did you give me something? Head feels funny.”

“Bruce had to give you one hefty dose of Ativan to get you to calm down. We thought you were going to send yourself into another attack.”

“Right, because everything is about my asthma now! Oh, I’m sorry, my _e-asthma_.”

“Been waiting for that anger to rear its ugly head. You need to get it out, kiddo.”

“Like you’d understand.” And he knows as it rolls off his tongue that it’s cruel and probably not true, but he doesn’t apologize, just stays still beneath the blanket.

Tony chuckles. “I love that you think I’ve never had a medical or mental breakdown. In front of SHIELD, no less. It’s cute, in a way.”

“Because you haven’t,” he says, pushing the envelope.

But Tony doesn’t take the bait, just cranks up the sarcasm. “I’ll take ‘things that _have_ happened’ for $1,000, Alex.”

“I still want to crawl into a hole and die.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You don’t get to tell me how I feel? When I _clearly_ feel like crawling in a hole and dying? Anyway, no one else, in the history of the Avengers, has ever had a nuclear meltdown like I did today.”

“Or,” Tony proposes, rubbing Peter’s back in small circles, “how about we stop assuming things about other people? Especially those on your team? On your side? Hmm? What’s all this comparison about anyway?”

“You should be in your meetings.”

“I _should_ be doing a lot of things. Drinking more water, eating less red meat, sleeping better, but could’ve, should’ve, would’ve, no?”

“Not funny.”

“I cancelled my meetings.”

“That makes me feel _worse_.”

“Those meetings ended up as emails, which they should’ve been in the first place, so it’s fine.”

“Why does everyone keep lying to me?!” Peter pulls himself into a tighter ball beneath the blanket.

Tony’s hand stops on Peter’s back. “No one is lying to you, Peter. What are you talking about?”

“I know those meetings were important! And I know that what happened is not how Steve or Natasha or Bruce would have handled today’s appointment if they were in my shoes, and I know that you and Dr. Cho and Bruce talked about the low dose chemo option without me, I _know_ it, and-”

“Hold up. Chemo?” Tony, wide-eyed, tilts his head to the side and blinks away his confusion. “Wow, that Ativan really did a number on you, kiddo.”

“I’m not stupid, Tony.”

“Never said you were. But what’s all this chemo talk about, hmm?”

“I did some research about my asthma. I know more than I want to know. _So much more_ than I want to know, a-and some of the literature-”

“Peter, I can promise you that we did _not_ discuss low dose chemo, with or without you. I read about it, too, but we know the exact protein causing your issues. You don’t need to worry about low dose chemo right now. You’re going to drive yourself crazy if you keep reading things online. You’re going to send your anxiety into overdrive.”

“I don’t have anxiety!”

“Ah, so, you’re allowed to be upset when you think I’m lying to you, but you can lie to me and it’s no problem?”

“No, Tony, I…my anxiety isn’t the issue right now.”

“Ah, so now you _do_ have anxiety?”

“Ugh! You’re really frustrating, you know that?!”

“Are you really that sure about your anxiety not being an issue right now? If what happened today wasn’t anxiety, then what was it?” Peter shifts uncomfortably beneath the blanket. “You can tell me. I want to be able to help you.”

“I don’t know, I just…want all of this to stop,” he says, sniffling. “I need it to _stop_. And we didn’t even…we didn’t even talk about the Nucala injections yet! I don’t want them. I know I n-need them, but I don’t want them!”

“Well, maybe…” Tony starts, and Peter knows that he’s trying to say that _maybe it won’t be so bad_, but he stops and sighs, rethinks his strategy. He’s not great at this, this heart-to-heart stuff, probably because he never had anything akin to this with his own father. And although Pepper’s taught him how to be a bit more understanding of her feelings and emotional trials, it’s different with Peter. He’s too…_smart_. Too much like Tony to fall for thinly veiled phrases meant to comfort. “They’ll probably hurt, yes,” he finally admits. “And we’re all worried about side effects. I can understand why that’s making you nervous.”

“I just want the attacks to stop,” Peter manages. “I want the wheezing and coughing to stop. It’s been getting harder, not easier. I thought this was supposed to be getting easier!”

“It will get easier, kiddo.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“And if it doesn’t, then we find a way to make the absolute best of it. You know I would go to the ends of the earth to make sure of that, Pete. But I have a good feeling about all of this. I really do. Bruce and Cho are the best of the best.”

Peter doesn’t answer, just stays beneath the blanket, and Tony doesn’t pull it away. He’s noticed that Peter’s defense mechanism throughout all of this has been hiding beneath blankets, and while childish at first glance, Tony knows there’s much more going on beneath the surface. He knows Peter and May have been through more than enough, that Peter’s seen and experienced things most people his age could never imagine. May had detailed Peter’s anxiety situation on the phone as Peter slept off the Ativan, Tony responding in a hushed tone from just outside the bedroom door, keeping watch for fear that Peter might wake in the midst of panic and confusion. 

_“He used to have nightmares, too,” May had shared. “About plane crashes, car accidents. You name it, Peter dreamt it. The anxiety attacks themselves got worse after everything with Ben, but seeing a therapist helped, along with the low doses of Ativan here and there. It was rough couple of months. He hasn’t had one as bad as you described in nearly two years, though. Do you think I should come home? Be with him? Maybe I went back to work too soon?” She’d sniffled. “I should have been home for his appointment today. I knew it was going to be upsetting. Maybe I could have explained some of the medical stuff? Do you think that would’ve helped?”_

_“Don’t beat yourself up, May. I think this was going to happen regardless. He’ll be okay once he’s up. I’ve said it before, you raised one hell of a tough cookie, that’s for sure.”_

_“The panic attacks are going to keep happening, Tony.”_

_“Bruce recommended a therapist.”_

_“Can’t say I disagree. You know Peter, though. He’s going to fight it.”_

_“I have someone in mind.”_

_“How do you know we can trust them?”_

_“Because I saw them for years after Afghanistan and New York. After I thought I lost Peter.”_

__He rubs his temples, wills away the headache growing from a lack of coffee. He hates that Peter feels so isolated, so _different_, like he has to do this all on his own. He thinks back to what he told Peter in MedBay the other night, hours after they’d had to give him the epi-pen.

_“Maybe this is an unhealthy strategy, but I always went with being brave in the moment and dealing with the emotions later, which…isn’t exactly the best idea, but…”_

_“Is that how you got through Afghanistan?”_

_“Yeah, kiddo.”_

_With his eyes still closed, Peter says, “Guess we’re a lot more alike…than I thought.”_

Peter’s in the after of Afghanistan, of New York, Tony thinks. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He’s _in it_, clawing his way back to normalcy. Tony remembers feeling like nothing would ever be okay again, like he’d never be able to accept the hunk of metal in his chest, or the gaping hole that Peter’s absence left. He’d been so trapped in the panic of making it out of both experiences alive that he hadn’t been able to imagine an actual _after_. And then he’d gotten home, was thrust back into the normalcy he’d been so desperately craving, and Tony had felt anything but normal, anything but himself.

He’s not sure he ever got those parts of himself back.

But to Peter, Tony just woke up and got over all of that in one fell swoop. To Peter, Natasha shrugged her past off like the blankets she knits, and Steve found the quick cure for all that ailed him, and Bruce controlled his anger by focusing on the present and his human emotions without any trial or error.

But that’s not reality. Tony knows that, was there when Natasha had her night terrors and when Steve doubted his intentions and Bruce lost complete control. Over and over and over.

And even though Peter’s been through so much in his short life, Tony’s aware that this time, it’s different. Because this time, Peter knows that there’s no timeline for healing, can’t stop focusing on the word _chronic_, and honestly, Tony doesn’t blame him for wanting control, for wanting there to be some kind of positive end result in all of the confusion.

“You’ve never seen me when my heart goes into an arrhythmia,” Tony says, looking down as his hands.

Peter pulls the blanket down just enough to look at Tony.

“It’s quite dramatic, actually,” Tony continues slowly. “My arc reactor shorting, me falling to the ground all helpless, chest heaving so badly that I swear my reactor is going to burst from my chest. Bruce calls it an arrhythmia like it’s subtle and innocent, but it’s the opposite. And the first time it happened, I said the same thing you said today when I was trying to calm you down in the hallway.”

“Make it stop?”

Tony nods. “Exactly. Only no one could hear me because I didn’t have enough breath to get the actual words out, so I looked like a babbling idiot.”

“Was Pepper there?”

“No, but SHIELD was.”

“How’d they get it to stop?”

“They had to shock me.”

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Like hell.”

Silence.

“Is…is this supposed to be comforting or something?” Peter asks.

“Look, Pete,” Tony says, sighing. “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to. Everyone does. It’s cliché but it’s the truth. And I know that today was rough. I knew it was going to be and that’s why I didn’t want you to go alone. I always went to my appointments alone, and then I’d hide away in my lab afterwards because I would get these panic attacks that made me feel like the whole world was caving in on me. I’d go in fine and then I’d just shatter afterwards. Bruce and Cho are good at what they do, but they get to leave after the appointment, go back to their regular non-medical world, while you go home with new medications and therapies and crushing anxiety.”

“You take medication? I…never knew that.”

Tony nods. “I’m getting older and my heart isn’t what it used to be, plus, I’ve got all of this scar tissue from the hack saw job they did in that cave in Afghanistan. The surgeries have helped, but they don’t fix the root cause. Bruce has been trying to convince me to yank my reactor for years, and maybe he’s got a point, that I’ve been avoiding it because I don’t want to do it. Because I’m scared. Because I’m used to feeling like this and I’m nervous that even with the surgery, I won’t feel any better than I do now.”

“If you don’t want to, then you shouldn’t have to.”

Tony shakes his head. “Doesn’t work like that, kiddo. It’s gonna have to happen sooner or later. It’s going to force its hand one day, and I’d rather it be my call and on my terms than leave it up to fate.”

“But you need it to run your suit.”

“Not anymore, I don’t. Not with the nanotech.”

“But…what if…”

Tony gives him a knowing smile, pats him on the back. “We might be superheroes, Underoos, but we’re still human. We can still break.”

Peter lets the thought ruminate. He’s not used to feeling human, feels like this asthma stuff has him feeling a little _too human_ and broken lately. 

“You hungry? I’m thinking _Top Gear_ re-runs and lo mein,” Tony says, and Peter’s happy that his health is no longer the topic of conversation. He nods, pulls the blanket down a little more so that he can sit up. Chinese food sounds great, seems like just the thing to pick up his mood enough to get his mind off of his embarrassing meltdown.

The guilt creeps in, though, during the lull in their conversation. 

“I’m sorry, Tony,” he says, rubbing the back of his head.

“About your panic attack?”

Peter shakes his head. “About _everything_.”

“Kiddo,” he says, sighing and shaking his head. “You don’t need to apologize about any of this. It was going to happen sooner or later. Your immune system was rearing to go. Not your fault. Neither is the anxiety. No more apologizing about any of this.”

Peter nods his head, feels Tony’s words roll off of him because he still feels guilty, still feels like he should have known better, like he could have prevented all of this drama if he’d just done what he was supposed to do even though he knows that wasn’t what made this happen.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Hmm?” Peter asks.

“Repeat: It’s not my fault.”

“B-but it is, Tony. This _is_ my fault!”

He shakes his head. “No, kiddo, it’s not. You didn’t cause this, didn’t deserve this, and it’s not your fault. Say it.”

Peter clenches his jaw and tries not to say anything stupid in response. He knows what Tony is getting at, but he doesn’t _feel _it, which is why he doesn’t want to say it. But he knows Tony’s going to make him. He’s in Dad Mode, and Peter has to play along.

“I didn’t cause this, don’t deserve this, and it isn’t my fault?” he asks like it’s a question. It feels awkward, like a shirt that’s too loose fitting.

“Again.”

He groans. “Tony.”

“Again, kiddo.”

Peter takes a deep breath, his exhale bordering a sigh. “I didn’t cause this, don’t deserve this, and it isn’t my fault.”

“Awesome.”

“Can we order food now?”

Tony ruffles his hair and smiles. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much whump? Not enough fluff?
> 
> What do you think will happen in the upcoming chapters?
> 
> Comment what you think! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thank you again for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! Enjoy! :D

**Chapter 11  
Tuesday, December 31, New Years**

Tony’s cancelled his infamous New Year’s party in exchange for a few last hours of work and a quiet, family affair at home.

The quiet family affair at home being Pepper’s insistence, of course.

But Tony’s not complaining. Not about that, at least.

Bruce has had him back on amiodarone to stop his heart from going into abnormal rhythms for exactly one day and the effects have been less than desirable. He’s spent much of the early morning nursing the garbage can in his lab, hiding away from Pepper. He’s barely slept as it is, can’t keep much beyond bland bologna sandwiches and coffee down. The headache that’s been pounding since he took those first few pills has been holding him back from making nearly any progress on any of his projects and he knows the tremor will return once the dosing has settled in his system.

“Neurotoxicity or a heart attack, Tony? Those are your choices if you don’t let me yank that reactor,” Bruce had explained late last night, glasses off, after FRIDAY had called him down to the lab for palpitations beyond normal parameters. Bruce had called it a cardiac event, but to Tony, it had felt like he was being stabbed in the chest, felt his breath coming in short spurts from the sheer pain. “You need to cut back on the coffee. And the stress.”

Tony had huffed.

Coffee. His lifeline. The thing getting him through all of this. No coffee equals…sleep. Or rather, it _should_. In a normal person, Tony thinks, less coffee means quality sleep, if one’s at that perfect place between exhausted and relaxed and not ten steps beyond a potential collapse and functionally manic like he is.

And stress? With Peter fighting a serious case of pneumonia and severe asthma to boot? _And_ his company running full speed ahead with him hanging on for dear life? _And_ Pepper on him about balancing work and home?

“Amiodarone makes me puke. Profusely.”

“It keeps your heart beating at a normal rhythm. It’s only temporary, Tony.”

He’d shaken his head. “You’re not taking my reactor.”

“Stubborn, as always. Not like I expected anything less. Let me do a full work-up.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Not funny. And the tremors will go away once we stop the oral meds.”

Tony knows that was code for _reactor removal_.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but having his feet up on the couch feels right. Times Square is live on TV, the volume low because there’s still three hours until the ball drops. Pepper and May are drinking wine across the room while Peter and MJ play some kind of card game on the floor. He closes his eyes despite the noise, is woken by Pepper sometime later. 

“Did I nod off?” he asks, inhaling quickly and stretching to wake himself up.

“Yup. Got about a half hour until the ball drops,” she whispers sweetly.

“Why’d you let me sleep for so long?” he asks, voice rough.

“Because you needed it, honey,” she says, fixing his hair. “You sure you’re okay? Your coloring is off.”

He hasn’t told Pepper about the amiodarone yet, doesn’t want her worrying about him _and_ Peter. 

“Don’t tell me you’re getting sick, too.” She sighs.

“Just needed a break.”

“Finally listening to me?” she jokes, but Tony can see the concern behind her eyes, can sense the way she’s studying his face for any signs of illness.

When the ball drops and everyone is clinking together champagne glasses, Pepper leans over and gives him a long, powerful kiss, reminds him that the new year is about more than just the _new_. Tony’s never been good at new years, was usually blackout drunk by this time of the evening in his younger years, but being at home with people he considers family is more than enough to keep him steady right now, keep him feeling like he deserves these people in his life, and he’s thankful.

For the first time in years, Tony is thankful for a new year, for family, for hope.

**Thurs, January 2**

Peter stands in the doorway of Tony’s lab in pajamas at a little past one in the morning, his hair messy from sleep. 

Or rather, the tossing and turning associated with _not _sleeping. He has a burst of energy, and even though it’s nearly two in the morning, he can’t get his brain to slow down. He’s tried his usual strategies: soft music, his Calm app, making his brain go blank, but his anxiety is compounding because he took his steroids later than usual, all at once rather than in short spurts throughout the day. Combined with the medication from his inhalers and breathing treatments, it’s created the perfect storm of anxiety and hyperactivity.

“You should be sleeping, Peter,” Tony advises without looking up from his worktable, and Peter’s _sure_ he hasn’t made any noise coming downstairs. In the quiet, though, he realizes he’s wheezing slightly.

_Stupid lungs._  
  
“Can’t. Steroids have me wired,” he replies, taking Tony’s acknowledgement as an invitation to enter. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants and nears the worktable. “Whatcha working on?”

“None of your business. Where’s your oxygen?” He doesn’t look up again, just continues working.

“You really think I’m gonna drag that all the way down here? Plus, I’m not sleeping.” He lifts his arms up, mimicking Tony’s penchant for talking with animation.

“His oxygen level is 95 and steady, boss,” FRIDAY chimes.

“Is it a new suit?” Peter asks, ignoring FRIDAY.

“Nope.” Tony uses a stationary magnifying device to get a closer look at the intricate metal in the new nano arc he’s holding. His hand wobbles and he stretches it to get it to stop, but the moment he goes back to tighten his grip on the arc, it goes back into the tremor.

“A new algorithm for FRIDAY?”

Tony sighs and turns toward Peter, pausing his work. He holds the solder gun in his hand up. “Does this look like coding to you?” He knows there’s an edge to his voice, that his fatigue is wearing him thin and making him snappy, but if Peter’s aware, he doesn’t make it obvious.

“No,” he shrugs, putting his hands in the pockets of his pajamas. “But I figured I’d ask because you’ve been spending so much time on the Boomerang Protocol and it sounded interesting.”

Tony’s eyebrows knit beneath his safety glasses. “How do you know about the Boomerang Protocol?”

“FRIDAY told me about it,” he explains nonchalantly as he takes the stool beside Tony. “Why’s it called Boomerang, anyway?”

“FRIDAY, why does Peter know about Boomerang?”

“You didn’t fully classify it, sir. Would you like me to classify all files associated with Boomerang according to your security standards? Shall I place it on your private server?”

“No,” he says, sighing. “Would you prefer I call it the Leash Kid Protocol?” he asks Peter.

“Wait…the protocol involves me? Please tell me that this isn’t another Baby Monitor thing.” He groans in annoyance.

“Remember Peak Weak?” Peter nods. “Well, I needed an algorithm that could keep cycling through new and old data, such as your heart rate, oxygen levels, breaths per minute, body temperature, local allergen levels, weather conditions, etc. etc., even as new data was presented, rather than be a one-and-done kind of system, thus, the name Boomerang. There have been a few snags, but I’m already getting some consistent trends. I’m hoping it helps us get ahead of things. Planning to roll it out fully soon.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Soon as in next week, or like-”

“Peter, I love you but you’re testing my patience right now with your endless questions.” Tony has to stretch his neck and take a deep breath to slow the pounding of his heart and the nausea building from his medication.

“S-sorry,” Peter offers, pulling back. “A-And I love you, too.”

Tony smiles, his stress level decreasing for a moment before it returns.

“But this isn’t Boomerang,” Peter comments, pointing at the arc.

Tony shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Can I watch?” Peter asks as Tony grips the solder gun and turns it on.

“Nope.”

“Then can you tell me when we’ll get back to the mentoring?”

“What is this, 20 questions?” Tony asks, sighing again as he turns the soldering gun off and places it on the cradle. He wants to say _when you’re feeling better_, but he knows Peter’s already there for some of the small stuff, that it’s Tony who has kept the mentoring paused. 

Tony and his much too human and broken body.

“I think I’ve already asked more than 20 questions,” Peter says, smiling sheepishly when he realizes he’s making it worse. “Sorry, I…get like this sometimes? May says it’s called hyperfocusing? The meds make it worse, a-and I took my steroids really late because I napped through my lunch and afternoon doses, which pushed my inhalers and treatment later, and-”

“Kid.”

“S-Sorry, Tony. I’m…I can’t get my brain to slow down when it’s like this, and-wait, _that’s_ an arc reactor?!” he asks, focusing intently on the device in Tony’s hand. He leans in closer. “With little robots? _Nanotech_? That’s so freaking _cool_!”

Tony blinks in fascination. “Wow, that was…unlike anything I think I’ve ever seen before. Hyperfocused _and_ distracted all at once. You sure you’re okay kid? Between the rambling and the anxiety, I’m not sure if I need to physically put you back to bed or-”

“I need to be busy right now,” Peter’s practically begging as his hands fidget in his lap. “Please let me help, or at least let me do _something _productive.”

“Alright. Pop quiz,” Tony says, carefully placing the arc down and turning the light on the magnifier off. “Get the answers right and you can stay.”

“Answers? There’s more than one question?!”

“I _could_ send you back to bed-”

“Okay, okay, multi-question pop quiz. Go for it.”

Tony takes his gloves off. “Define _ion_.”

“An atom or group of atoms that has a charge.”

“Correct. Next question,” he says, taking his safety glasses off. “A neutral atom loses an electron. What would we call this ion?”

Peter tries to think back to his chemistry class, because they’ve _definitely_ covered this. He’s picturing Mrs. Benninger’s notes on the SmartBoard, but for some reason, all he can think about is _cats_. 

“Tick-tock,” Tony prods.

“I know this! We…we must have covered this when I…” Peter says, looking down at the floor, his heel lifting and falling on the foot rail of the stool as he thinks. “Okay, um, an atom loses an electron, so now it’s positive.” _Paw-_sitive, he thinks, and suddenly, he has the answer. _CAT-_ion. “Cation!”

“Bingo! One more, for good measure. What do we measure ionization energy in?”

“Kilojoules per mole!”

“And to think that a week ago you believed I could measure your fever through magic.”

“Hey! I was really sick! Not a fair comparison,” Peter argues.

“True. 

“I may not have earned the Stark Internship by competing against my peers, but I promise I’m smart, Tony. I promise I can keep up.”

Tony narrows his focus on the kid. “That’s about the fifth time this week you felt the need to tell me that you’re smart. Care to elaborate?”

“I don’t know,” Peter says, shrugging. “I guess I just don’t feel smart most of the time. The meds make my brain fuzzy sometimes.”

“Bruce just switched a bunch of your meds up. I’m sure that will help.”

“And all of my friends are…_smarter_.”

“Not possible, kiddo. Except maybe MJ,” he jokes.

Peter shrugs and scratches his head. “I don’t know, I guess this past two weeks just made me feel really stupid.”

“Stupid?”

“Like I made some bad choices and needed to make it up to you?”

“You don’t have to make anything up to me, Peter.”

He looks down at the floor. “Just feels like it is all, especially after my appointment.”

“Hey, we’ve gone over this,” Tony says, placing a hand on Peter’s forearm and squeezing it. “You did make some poor choices, but we know your asthma would have done what it wanted anyway. Even Bruce said so at your appointment. What did he call it again?”

“A ticking time-bomb.”

“Exactly. And now that your healing factor has kicked in, you should be back to patrols in no time.”

“I’m kind of scared to go back to school,” Peter says, his voice small.

“After everything you’ve been through, you’re worried about _school_?” Tony asks, trying to lighten the mood.

“It’s one thing if my lungs lose it here and a _completely_ different thing if they do it at school.”

Tony’s confused. “It already happened at school.”

“No, Tony. I mean…”

“Ah,” Tony says. “You mean the epi-pen.”

Peter nods.

“You’re worried about what MJ thinks?”

“No,” Peter says, shaking his head. “MJ’s been…great. About everything.”

“_And_ she’s been coming over nearly every day to see you.”

“She has.”

“And Ted?”

“It’s Ned. And he’s been okay about it, too. For the most part. He hasn’t actually seen me yet. But it’s also the rest of school that has me worried. Like stairs and gym and keeping up with the work. My brain still feels like it’s been abducted by aliens.”

“We’ll, you’ve got a few days until you’re back at school, if all goes according to plan, _and_ you just aced my pop quiz, so I’d say you’re right where you need to be, Underoos. And you’ve been signed off of gym and Bruce said he’d write you a note for an elevator pass.”

“I’m not taking the elevator.”

“Says the kid who’s supposed to be on oxygen right now.”

“I’m awake, though! Bruce said I only need it when I’m sleeping!”

“Do you know why you need it at night?”

“Because…your breathing slows when you’re asleep?” he tries.

“Because your body releases cortisol, a stress hormone, at night, which can worsen the inflammation in your airways. The hormones that protect against an attack during the day are at their lowest points at night.”

“My night attacks during Peak Week?”

“Exactly.”

“But the steroids lower my cortisol levels, right?”

“Even so, your lungs are working hard to breathe, kiddo. I can _hear_ it.”

“M’always wheezy,” Peter says, shrugging. “Stop worrying so much.”

“I’ll always about you,” Tony admits, ruffling his hair. “And there’s nothing you can do about it,” he jokes. Peter smiles, pulls his head away.

“So, you’re working on a new arc reactor?” Peter asks.

“Key word is _working_.”

“Does that mean you’re going to have Bruce take yours out?”

Tony pauses, breathes to stop the swelling of nausea overtaking him. “At some point, yeah, but I have to have this ready long before that happens.”

“But you said you don’t need it to run your suit.”

“Don’t need the reactor, but I do need something to run it. That’s where the nanotech comes in.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

“If I knew what the problem was, I’d be able to fix it, kid,” Tony says, laughing. “Do you know how my current reactor works?”

“Something about hydrogen atoms and plasma?”

“Close, but no. What kind of education are they giving you at Midtown, anyway?”

“I’m only a couple months into chemistry, Tony. We haven’t exactly covered…Iron Man yet.”

Tony laughs. “Think you’re up to helping me figure this nanotech out?”

Peter’s face lights up. “Really?!”

“Yes, but first, a science experiment. You need to understand fusion before I can let you anywhere near my reactor _or_ my worktable.”

x

“Grapes?” Peter asks, confused, as Tony sets a bag of them down on the kitchen island. “We’re microwaving grapes?”

“We’re causing a fusion reaction. But also, yes, we’re microwaving grapes.”

Tony slides the glass tray in the microwave slightly off of the plastic turners, places two grapes side-by-side on top. He sets the timer and pulls Peter back across the kitchen.

“What am I looking for, exactly?” Peter asks, curious.

“Plasma.”

“Plasma?” he asks, confused. “Wouldn’t that be dangerous? And what’s with the oven mitts?”

Flashes of light emanate from inside the microwave for a few seconds before there’s a ball of fire that shorts the device.

“Woah! That was _awesome_!” Peter yells, covering his mouth immediately when he realizes how loud he’s been.

“So, that, the flash you saw, was plasma, and it happens because the microwave has to concentrate energy into a small space. The waves get trapped in the skin of the grapes and form a hotspot. My current reactor utilizes ionization, which also creates a plasma that…” Tony gives an elaborate explanation and Peter’s doing his best to keep up, but sleep is pressing. The hyperactivity from the steroids is finally wearing off and Peter tries to come up with a question to prove he’s been paying attention, but he can’t get his brain to think.

“We tell Pepper it was Thor,” Tony finally whispers, but Peter can see the wide smile on his face as he pops the door open, removes the glass tray, and sprays the evidence into the disposal with the sprayer.

“But Thor isn’t here right now.”

“Okay, so we tell Pepper Thor _came over_ and tried to microwave grapes.” He wipes the glass tray down, places it back in the busted microwave, and puts the oven mitts back in the drawer.

Peter thinks about it, feels fatigue wash over him. He yawns again. “Deal.”

“Ice cream?” Tony asks, opening the fridge.

“Um,” Peter answers, suddenly on edge. “No, thank you, I’ll…pass.”

“Bed?”

“Y-yeah, but I don’t need to be tucked in, Tony. I can get myself to bed.”

“May will kill me if she knows I had you up until three in the morning, and I want to make sure you don’t forget your oxygen.”

“You mean May _and_ _Pepper_ will kill you.”

Tony considers it, tilts his head. “I’m about 75% sure Pepper has already plotted my potential murder with all of the shit I’ve pulled over the years, but I could see May getting involved if she found out I kept you up so late.”

“May would _totally_ get involved. Probably for the fun alone.”

“They’re a force to be reckoned with together, that’s for sure.”

“Pepper’s still mad about the bologna, by the way.”

“Oh, trust me, I know. It’s been days and I still haven’t heard the end of it.”

x

Peter grabs his cannula, adjusts it beneath his nose and around his ears before Tony turns the oxygen on. “Thanks for letting me help. Made me feel useful. I don’t feel really useful right now, as you could imagine.”

“Well, gotta prepare the next Tony Stark somehow,” he jokes.

Peter pulls his duvet up and sighs. “I could never be you, Tony.”

“What makes you say that?” Tony asks, sitting on the end of Peter’s bed.

“What makes you think I _could_ be you?”

“Well, let’s see. Tenacity. A willingness to do good. Charmingly good looks.” He holds a finger up for each quality.

“Maybe not the last one,” Peter says with a laugh.

“MJ seems to think so.”

Peter blushes.

“You wanted to be me, kid, and-”

“_Everyone_ wants to be you, Tony. And you wanted me to be better than you, I know. I’m trying. I _promise_ that I’m trying. I just tend to make everything worse when I’m actually doing everything in my power to do the exact opposite. It’s like MJ says-”

“Ah, so now we’re quoting the girlfriend. Thought we’d give it at least a few more weeks…”

He blushes again.

“Get some sleep, kiddo,” he says, patting the bed as he goes to leave. “You look like you need it.”

“Love you too,” Peter quips as Tony turns the light off.

“Love you, Underoos,” he hears him say softly with a smile as he closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much whump? Not enough fluff?
> 
> What do you think will happen in the upcoming chapters?
> 
> Comment what you think! :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist posting the next chapter! Thanks for the kudos and comments! :)

**Chapter 12  
Thursday, January 2**

“Did you have Peter up until three in the morning last night?! Is that why my microwave is broken?” Peter hears Pepper scream from the kitchen on his way to breakfast, and he turns around, heads right back to his room because he definitely does _not_ want to get in the middle of what he knows is about to be a doozy of an argument. “Did you microwave fucking _grapes_ again? Anthony Edward Stark, I fucking _swear_ !”

A text from Tony pops up on Peter’s phone. _We need to get you out of the house. It’s starting to get sad._

_Are you calling my life sad? And you only wanna leave because Pepper’s yelling at you.  
_  
_Yes to both. Meet me in the garage. Grab your backpack._ _Bundle up. It’s snowing.  
_  
Peter meets Tony on lower level two, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Where to?” he asks once they’re in one of Tony’s sports cars.

Tony shrugs. “Wherever the music takes us.”

“Isn’t that a waste of gas?” Peter asks, the words out of his mouth before he realizes that that’s a May thing.

It’s an _I don’t have money for new sneakers, Peter_ , kind of thing.

He grimaces, knows Tony probably wouldn’t understand what that’s like.

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo. Battery is charged, gas tank is full just in case, and we have all the time to get wherever we go.”

Tony’s car is self-driving, but he pulls the steering wheel out, adjusts it and has FRIDAY fix his mirrors. He cranks the tunes up and pulls out of the underground parking garage onto Park. Peter sits quietly and listens, has a suspicion that this impromptu trip is in relation to the increasing tension between Tony and Pepper. Tony’s admitted to it, sure, but Peter also knows there’s something else, something he can’t place, that Tony seems to be hiding, and there’s a nagging deep inside that says something is going to happen if he doesn’t figure it out.

“I’ll give you a dollar if you can name this band,” Tony asks when they’re stuck at a red light a few blocks from the FDR.

And even though Peter’s on edge from whatever’s just happened, he jokingly asks, “Just a dollar?”

“Don’t push it, kid.”

The song sounds like every other rock song he’s heard, and he panics slightly; it’s obvious that music is important to Tony, and Peter wants to impress him, but he barely listens to music other than what’s on the radio. _Focus, Peter, _ he thinks. It sounds a little country, a little like rock and roll, with a lot of harmony. 

“Okay, okay, um…Led Zeppelin?”

“Really? This sounds like Robert Plant to you?” Tony turns the volume up as if that will help. “If this was Led Zeppelin, you’d feel like you were watching a _Lord of the Rings_ movie.”

“Guns ‘N Roses?”

Tony unlocks the doors. “That’s it, out of the car!”

“But it’s January! It’s like, 3 degrees and flurrying outside!” Peter’s eyes are wide as he tries to imagine walking home in this cold. 

He locks the doors again. “Joking. But also, this is The Eagles. Glenn Frey on vocals. Show some respect, man,” Tony jokes. “I know May listens to The Eagles.” He cranks it even louder and moves forward when the light turns. “That woman _breathes_ rock and roll.”

_Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy_ , Frey sings from the stereo.  
_  
_ When the next one comes on, it’s a guy singing about traveling. It sounds to him exactly like the band from the last one, and he’s panicked again, because why couldn’t FRIDAY shuffle at least _one_ song that he knows?

“There’s a whole dollar at stake here,” Tony taunts, and Peter laughs, because Tony is grinning as he weaves through traffic.

_Big old jet airliner, don’t carry me too far away…_

“Bryan...Ryan...Bryan Adams?”

“Okay, five cents for trying, because there is a Bryan and a Ryan Adams, but no. Steve Miller Band. They also sing “Take the Money and Run” and “Fly Like an Eagle?”

Peter shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.

“I’m shocked, kid, but I guess I’m also not.” And Peter thinks he’s referencing his parents, or lack thereof, until Tony adds, “Gotta get you out of those books and to a concert.”

They’re finally on the FDR, moving with traffic toward the Bronx, and all Peter can feel in the lack of conversation is the tension from this morning. From the _last few days_ . They sit like that for a while, until they’re somewhere in the Bronx on a scenic highway that feels far from the city. It’s snowing harder now, and while it’s beautiful, that nagging feeling hits Peter again.

Peter licks his lips, takes a few breaths to prepare himself. “I-I know it’s not my business, but you and Pepper…”

“Love each other very much but are going through a rough patch,” Tony states.

“Right.” Peter nods. “It’s just that, when May and Ben used to fight, it was different, you know?”

“You mean it wasn’t nearly as cut-throat?” Tony asks with a laugh.

“May’s witty, but not like Pepper. Pepper’s…” he trails, taking a deep breath.

“Venomous.”

Peter exhales with “Yeah.”

“I drive Pepper crazy, and she drives me crazy, but I love her to death. I love her more than I thought I could love, and I know I’m imperfect, that I do stupid things left and right, but she turns me to mush when no one else can, and _that_ is why our marriage is happily flawed and chaotic in all of the ways marriage probably isn’t supposed to be.”

“She really cares about you, Tony,” Peter comments. “I don’t think she’s mad, I think she’s just worried about you. I’m…worried about you.” It comes out before Peter can stop it.

“Worried about me?” Tony asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You fell asleep? O-on New Year’s?” Peter tries, and Tony doesn’t answer, just focuses on the road. “And I know about your tremor. I saw it in your lab, a-and it happens every day now and…is it your heart?”

Tony doesn’t answer, just keeps his eyes focused on the road and his hands on the wheel. His jaw is set, posture suddenly stiff.

“Just felt like since we always talk about my health stuff, we could talk about yours? When…_if_ you wanna talk about it, I-I’d listen, you know?”

And Peter really feels like he’s fucked up royally, _screwed the pooch_ , as Tony always puts it, when Tony puts the car into autopilot. The steering wheel disappears into the dashboard as Tony sits back his sunglasses still on.

“It’s just…you’re always helping me, and I feel like I should be able to help you, too,” he tries.

Silence.

Deep breath. “Tony, you’re like, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father other than Ben, and I just want you to be okay. Things have been really hard lately, and I know you and Pepper are fighting a lot, and you’re obviously exhausted, and, I don’t know. I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I want to help. I feel like I’m the thing that’s causing all of the stress. I can go back to May’s if you think that would help?”

Still silence.

“Tony?”

Silence.

Tony presses a button on the dash and the car pulls to the side of the road, slows to a stop on the grassy shoulder, and Peter’s panicked now, because Tony is going to make him get out of the car, is going to tell him he has to walk home in this awful weather, to May’s, no less, and his brain is racing, coming up with every catastrophe that is surely going to come from this, when Tony scrambles out of the driver’s side and runs toward the trees where he promptly begins to vomit.

“Tony!” Peter yells, trying to undo his seatbelt and exit the vehicle. He expects it to stop when he gets to Tony’s side, but it’s relentless, has Tony choking as he tries to get a breath in between heaves.

“It’s okay,” he tries to explain, pushing Peter out of the way. “The meds,” he adds, waving a hand over his stomach. “They…do this.” He heaves again, a stream of bile landing on the white snow.

“Do you want me to call Pepper?”

“No!” Tony yells, his hands on his knees as he tries to hold back another round of vomiting. “Do _not_ call Pepper!” He pukes again, and again, before spitting.

“Water?” Peter asks, and Tony nods just to get the kid to stop talking. Peter runs back to the car and digs through his backpack to find the unopened water he usually keeps, grabs a small package of tissues, too, in case Tony wants to clean up before getting back in the car.

“Thanks,” Tony replies when Peter cracks the water open and hands it over. He takes a few sips and washes his mouth out, swaps the bottle for the tissues to dry his face. The cool air feels good on his neck, is helping to quell the swell of nausea that came over him in the car. He’d been planning on a quick cruise up the Hudson and back, but now, an hour in to their impromptu trip, he’s thinking the extra thirty minutes to the upstate facility for a nap might be in order.

“You got your permit yet?” Tony asks when they’re back in the car, still sitting on the side of the shoulder.

Peter’s eyebrows furrow. “My birthday’s not until August.”

“FRIDAY, can you get us to the upstate compound?”

“Yes, sir. Would you like me to prepare anything for your arrival?”

“The usual, FRI. Thanks.”

“Tony, please tell me what’s going on,” Peter’s begging, his eyes filling with tears.

Tony sees how upset Peter’s getting and takes a slow breath in, puts his sunglasses back on. “I’m okay, kid. I’ve been having these cardiac events and Bruce has me on some meds that make me puke profusely. It’s nothing new, but it’s been a while since I’ve needed them. Didn’t mean to scare you. Getting sick makes the tremor worse, though. That’s why I asked if you wanted to drive.”

“B-but FRIDAY’s going to drive, right?”

“Yes, but I don’t feel too hot and I wasn’t sure if I trusted myself in the case I need to turn autopilot off.” His voice is lower than normal and he’s rubbing his forehead like he’s got the headache of all headaches.

“Maybe we should turn back?” Peter says, lowering his own voice. “I could call Steve to come and get us. He’s usually home during the day-”

“No one can know, Pete,” Tony says with an exasperated sigh as he presses his fingertips to his eyes. “_Do not_ tell anyone about what just happened. You have to promise.”

“I-I promise?” he says, though agreeing makes him nervous, more so than he was when he didn’t know what was going on. Peter’s good at keeping his own secrets. But other people’s? He knows this is going to take a lot of energy and work to keep under wraps.

What if he can’t do it?

“The compound is closer. We’ll lie low, relax for the day.” Tony sighs again, tips his head back as FRIDAY pulls away from the curb and into the right lane. 

“Estimated time of arrival is twenty-five minutes, sir,” FRIDAY announces.

It’s a little too quiet now with the music off, the hum of the wheels on the road making Peter’s anxiety pique.

“Do you need me to-”

“I can take care of myself, Pete.”

Peter chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s just that…I said the same thing to you, when I got sick, and now…I just took care of you-”

“You did not take care of me, kiddo,” Tony tries to argue, but even he knows that Peter’s right. The water and tissues didn’t just appear out of nowhere. “Okay. So maybe you _helped._ A little. Thank you.”

“Just a little? You asked me if I had my permit to-”

“Pete, please stop talking. My head’s spinning and if I don’t get it to stop, we’re gonna be spending the night upstate.”

“You sure you don’t want-”

“Shhh.”

“Okay, but-”

“Pete, I swear to God-”

“Okay. Got it.”

It’s quiet for a brief moment before Pete opens his mouth to ask one last question.

“Don’t you dare.”

He’s itching to help, to cover him in a blanket or something like he usually does for Peter, but he’s got nothing but his backpack. Tony looks borderline pitiful right now, his face pale and forehead creased in pain. Peter watches the minutes until they reach the compound tick down on the dashboard, glancing over at Tony periodically. He wants to think that what he saw today doesn’t change things, especially since Tony’s been at every turn of Peter’s illness, but this feels different, makes _everything_ he thought he knew to be true about Tony feel different.

He pushes the feeling away, decides to occupy his mind by keeping a close eye on Tony until they’re back in the city. He hasn’t done this in a while, this hyperfixation on another person’s pain. He used to do this when Ben’s migraines would hit. He’d draw the shades, turn the television down or off, depending on how Ben was acting, and make him tea. May was better at nursing Ben back to health, especially after the week-long migraines, but when she wasn’t home and it was just the two of them, it was Peter’s responsibility to get Ben back up on his feet.

“What would I do without you, Petey?” Ben had commented once after the fog of a three-day migraine had lifted.

He misses being called Petey.

The memory makes Peter smile despite the pang of grief that hits. He pulls his phone and headphones out, puts on the newest playlist that MJ’s made for him, and watches the dashboard and snowy scene building outside through the windshield, Tony in his peripheral.

x

**Friday, January 3**

Tony’s nursing a cup of black coffee to quell his nausea in the kitchen at two in the morning after getting in late from the compound with Peter, is digging through some academic articles to get his nanotech up and running, when FRIDAY interrupts with “Pardon the interruption, sir, but it appears that Peter’s having a nightmare.”

And then he hears it. “May!” Peter’s screaming at the top of his lungs, voice straining with guilt and sorrow. “_May!_ ”

Tony feels his stomach drop as he rushes to Peter.

“I’m sorry, May! I’m sorry! Uncle Ben, h-he’s…there was an accident…w-we went for ice cream…I couldn’t stop the _blood_ … I didn’t…I didn’t know how to _stop it_ !”

“Shh, wake up, Pete,” he directs, shaking the kid gently in his balled-up state. “It’s not real. You’re having a nightmare.”

Peter doesn’t answer, just sobs, spit hanging from his mouth and sweat matting his hair to his forehead as Tony eases him to sit up and rest against the headboard. He blinks rapidly in confusion as he slowly comes to, a slight wheeze trailing his breaths. He glances down at his hands, sees that they’re covered in snot and spit, and continues to sob quietly. 

“It’s over,” Tony assures him, grabbing a wad of tissues from the nightstand. “It’s all over. Shh.” He removes Peter’s oxygen and places the tissues beneath his nose, tells him to blow, and he knows Peter’s completely out of it when he complies. He wipes the spit hanging like strings from his mouth and then his hands with the remaining tissues. “Your chest feel tight at all, kiddo?”

“N-no,” Peter whispers, sniffling. He hiccups, closing his eyes. “I-I’m sorry. I haven’t had this happen in a long time. I didn’t mean to-”

“It happens, Underoos. It’s okay. I was already up anyway.”

“It was _real_ , Tony. W-we went out for ice cream, and then Uncle Ben, h-he…he…” He sobs, face twisting tightly as his lungs hitch, causing him to cough.

_Ice cream_ ? Tony asks himself, remembering last night in the kitchen, when Peter got weird at the offer, and then it clicks. The accident. The ice cream shop. _Peter was there when Ben died._  
  
“Hey,” Tony soothes, rubbing Peter’s shoulder with one hand while he grabs more tissues with his other. “Shhh. Deep breaths. Don’t want you having an attack on top of this.”

“I-I think I need May,” he whispers, his breaths come in rapid succession, back lifting off of the headboard. “I need May!” His eyes are suddenly wide, body stiff and on alert. “S-she knows…what to do…”

“You’re okay. I’m here. I promise we’ll call her tomorrow, okay?”

Peter doesn’t answer or nod, just sits with his eyes tightly closed as the tears roll down his cheeks. He looks so distraught, so _vulnerable_ , and the wheeze coming from Peter’s lungs is concerning. He knows he needs to calm him down, get him back on his oxygen. He doesn’t want to overstep or make Peter any more anxious than he already is by hugging him, but he needs to do _something_ .

“You have a low oxygen level alert from Peter,” FRIDAY announces.

“Can’t breathe…like this,” Peter finally whispers, and Tony goes to put his cannula back in only to stop when he realizes it’s full of snot and spit. “Meds make it worse.”

“They make your breathing worse?” Tony asks, confused.

“My _anxiety_ . Don’t make me…take any asthma…meds right now. _Please_ ,” he begs, breathing rushed and uneven. “Did May g-give you…my Ativan?”

“No,” Tony says, shakes his head. “We’ll do just the oxygen, okay? Get you comfortable and relaxed,” Tony says, Peter nodding. He needs a new cannula, so he digs through the plastic drawers of the stacker Pepper bought to hold the growing number of Peter’s medical supplies and pulls out a mask. “Sorry, all I can find kiddo.”

“S’fine,” he mutters, coiling back into a ball on the bed. Tony unwraps it and switches the oxygen over, fits the mask over Peter’s mouth and nose and adjusts the strap. “Stay with me?” Peter asks, his breaths clouding the mask. “Just until I…fall asleep? Scared it’s gonna…happen again. Sometimes it happens again.” He sniffles, curls into the smallest ball possible.

Tony pulls Natasha’s blanket over him and sits down beside him to rub his back. “Of course, kiddo.”

“I miss Uncle Ben,” he musters, lets the tears fall as he forces his eyes shut. “I-I miss him so much.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Peter nods, scoots closer to Tony, who untangles the oxygen line and makes sure Peter’s as comfortable as possible. He decides to keep the parallels he’s realized between Tony and Ben on their trip today to himself, focuses instead on memories. 

Happy memories always make him feel better.

“Ben used to make…the best blueberry cookies,” Peter starts. “A-and he loved Mets games. He used to get up early on Sundays…to do the crossword in the paper. May used to joke that he was like an…old man in a young person’s body.” He gives a small smile and sniffles. “He always said that…with great power…comes great responsibility. You think he was…right, Tony?”

“Ben seems like he was wise beyond his years,” Tony replies with a small smile. “Would’ve gotten a real kick out of watching you do the superhero gig.”

“Yeah, he would’ve.”

Tony and Peter sit like that until Peter’s words start to grow further apart, Tony running his fingers through the kid’s hair as a means of comfort. The kid’s still wheezy, but the numbers on Tony’s watch look good, so he isn’t worried. He stays longer than he probably needs to, just to be sure Peter’s okay, before he returns to the kitchen, to his academic articles, an ear out in case Peter wakes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment your predictions!!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally reached the 10k mark in hits! Thank you for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, subscribing, and bookmarking! Thank you to HDAlayst for being the best beta reader!!
> 
> I'm realizing that my story deviates from canon. I'm working on a second IronDad fic where Tony survives End Game and Morgan is present! In the new fic, Peter will have type one diabetes and is struggling to balance being Spiderman with the rollercoaster of highs and lows. Cue Dad Mode Tony who is driving himself crazy trying to support Peter. There will be whump, but also tons of family and MJ fluff! Let me know your thoughts! 
> 
> This fic still has a bunch of chapters to go, so no worries! We haven't reached the climax just yet. ;)

**Chapter 13  
Saturday, January 4**

MJ is rethinking her dress, leggings, and boots, mostly because of the windchill, but also because dates are not her thing. It’s not that she hasn’t been on one before.

Okay, so she hasn’t been on one. Ever.

But Peter doesn’t need to know that, right?

She fixes her knitted scarf and tucks a loose strand of hair beneath her matching knitted headband before she opens the door.

Peter’s in a dark pea coat and red gloves that nearly match his cheeks in the cold. There’s a hoodie beneath his coat and the hood is up to cover his head and ears, a scarf sealing the gap between the two, but MJ thinks that despite the layers, he still looks seconds away from becoming an icicle. He smiles when he sees her, his eyes lighting up as he grins, and MJ blushes, steps out onto the stoop and closes the door behind her.

“Are you a carbon sample?” Peter asks, his voice shaking. He tightens his grip on the straps of his backpack. “Because I wanna date you.”

“Oh, _God_, that was so corny,” MJ says, laughing in that way where she scrunches her nose, and Peter smiles back at her, which makes her stomach flip. “Please tell me you didn’t practice that the entire way here.”

“Maybe?” he jokes back, shrugging.

“Anyway, we’re already dating, loser,” she says.

“We are,” he says with a nod and it’s sweet, innocent almost, and he can’t stop grinning like an idiot.

“So, where to?” she asks, bouncing on her heels.

“Well, I had originally planned for us to go ice skating, but it’s too cold and my lungs still suck, so I figured we’d start with a short walk to the N and go a couple of stops downtown.”

“Oh, a mystery! I like this already. As long as it doesn’t become a murder mystery, you know?” she laughs nervously as they head toward the subway station.

“I’m…not a murderer?” Peter’s giving her the look she gets a lot, the one where she knows that what she’s said is not socially acceptable and she’s freaking them out. He realizes she was joking and recovers. “B-but I mean, if you’re into mysteries and stuff there’s this thing where you pay to be part of an escape room, only it takes place all over the city and there are these actors who you meet along the way and further the plot-”

“Peter.”

“What?”

“I was joking about the murder mystery. I know you’re not a murderer.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Yeah, I knew that.”

“Did you?”

“Look, I’m really nervous, MJ,” he explains, hoping he doesn’t sound like he’s whining. “I just want you to have a good time tonight. I’m sorry if I’m being super awkward.”

“A good time, eh?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Not like that! Ugh!” He closes his eyes and exhales, deflating. “I really _really_ like you and you spent most of your break sitting with me while I did treatments and coughed up gunk. Not exactly fun. I wanted to do something nice for you. Something thoughtful.”

“I’ve liked sitting with you while you did treatments. I’d call that a great winter break. Plus, we didn’t get through the Star Wars saga yet _and_ we haven’t made cookies, so I have no issue with more days spent on the couch.”

“We’d _burn_ cookies, MJ.”

“We’d still eat them! That’s what counts.”

And Peter feels himself swoon as they descend below the streets of New York City, because MJ always has a different perspective than anyone he’s ever met and it always makes Peter laugh, makes him feel like he shouldn’t take himself and this crazy world so seriously. He needs this night out with her, has been craving the freedom to just _be_ with her without Tony and Pepper popping in to make sure he’s still breathing.

They swipe their MetroCards, and of course, Peter’s turnstile asks him to _please swipe again_.

“You’ve lived here how long?” MJ jokes once Peter’s finally through.

“Since birth? We need the N,” he says, leading her toward the downtown signs.

“You know we could’ve taken the M from my house, right? Or an Uber??”

“I have trust issues with the BDFM after getting stranded underground on a crowded oven of an F train for over an hour last summer. And anyway, we aren’t going in that direction. Also, Uber’s are expensive.”

“Your first mistake was taking the F, so, sorry not sorry, you got yourself into that one.”

They go down another set of stairs and walk toward the middle of the platform where there’s less people. The LED sign says the next downtown N train will be arriving in 2 minutes and Peter groans internally because his lungs are already starting to burn from the cold and the walking even though he did a treatment right before he left. There are benches, but he’s refuses to even entertain the idea and focuses his attention on MJ.

“I mean, you live near the S,” she’s saying, “which literally goes nowhere anyone needs to go, so…”

“Not the proper use of literally,” Peter argues lightly, “_and_ people _do_ take the S, just not…us.”

“What do you take to school?” MJ asks.

Peter produces his neon green student MetroCard from the back of his phone case. “The 7 from the Tower, but when I come from May’s, I take the B or F. Mostly the B. For obvious reasons.” They both laugh in reference to Peter’s F train experience. There’s a sudden whoosh of cool air into the already cold station and Peter looks up in expectation of the train arriving.

“These cars look full,” MJ says as the cars pass, elbowing Peter as he puts his MetroCard away. “Come on.” She slides her arm through his and pulls him into a slow jog down the platform until they’re nearing the end. The train slows, screeches to a sudden halt, and the doors open.

“Your chariot,” MJ says, but Peter nudges her in first.

“Should be…my line,” Peter says breathlessly as they sit, legs touching. 

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” the automated voice announces, the doors whirring closed a moment later.

“What stop?” MJ asks, looking over at Peter as the train pulls away from the station. He seems winded and it hits her that she’s made him run, didn’t even _ask_ before she pulled him down the platform. She _knows_ Peter isn’t going to tell her if he’s not feeling well tonight, would rather suffer in silence than bring attention to himself because wasn’t his passing out in chemistry class testament to that very fact?

Her first date, and she’s nearly killed him because she isn’t thinking.

Okay, so maybe she hasn’t nearly killed him, but she’s making him wheeze and that might as well be the same thing.

_For someone so smart, you can be so stupid sometimes_, echoes in her head.

“It’s a…surprise,” he says with a smile, but his obvious struggle and even more obvious attempt to hide the fact that he’s wheezing slightly is breaking her heart because it’s _her fault_.

“Fuck. I wasn’t thinking when I made you run, Peter. I’m sorry.”

“Just need a minute. I’ll be okay.” He tips his head back, takes a deep breath and then another one as he slowly rubs his hands up and down his legs.

“We can go home and start a new series, burn cookies,” she offers, face wrought with guilt.

He shakes his head and looks over at her. “What? No.”

“But you’re wheezing!”

“M’always wheezing,” he jokes, laughing. MJ bites her lip and looks down. “Hey,” he says, taking her hand in his. “I’m okay. And I’ve been planning this…for days. It’s gonna be great. Just gotta trust me.”

“You have to tell me if you feel like you need to go home. Promise me.”

“Promise.”

“Pinkie promise?”

Peter laughs. “What is this, kindergarten?”

“Pinkie promise,” she prompts, putting her pinkie up, and Peter has to admit that he finds it kind of adorable. He links his with hers and smiles.

“I pinkie promise.” Peter thinks it’s silly, but he finds that he doesn’t want to let MJ’s pinkie go, so he pulls her hand into his again and holds it between their laps, finishes catching his breath and tries to keep his heel from bouncing in excitement.

MJ feels the need to fill the silence between them. “I thought you’d bring me somewhere super touristy like Rockefeller Center and-” she says, stopping when Peter’s face changes. “Oh no, you _were_ planning that? For later? Shit. I’m already fucking this up! I keep fucking this up! Fuck!”

“You’re not!” Peter insists, and there’s that smile again, that sweet goofy smile that is making her heart melt ten times over. “I did think about it, thought maybe we could have our picture taken, but I worried you would be too cold and knew it would be crowded. It’s kind of touristy and, I don’t know, I was afraid you wouldn’t find it cool.” He shrugs. “I thought you’d want something a little quieter.”

MJ’s been to see the tree in Rockefeller Center before. She tends to avoid anything touristy on principle alone, but her cousins from Chicago came last year during Christmas break and she’d been forced to endure Times Square, the Empire State Building, and the Museum of Natural History.

She loves the Museum of Natural History, but that visit had been torturous. She hasn’t been back since. There’d been that application for their summer program, except all of that stuff had gone down with her parents, and by the time it would have started, she realized she hadn’t heard back. 

“This is us,” Peter announces, standing just before the train begins to slow. 

“This stop is 14th Street, Union Square,” the automated voice announces.

Peter surfs as the transfers are listed, doesn’t fumble or need the pole, and MJ does the same, though she has to hide a slight blunder on the last sudden hit of the brakes by grabbing Peter’s arm.

Okay, so maybe she doesn’t hide it, but Peter grins back at her and makes a gesture for her to exit the car first. There’s a band, or rather, a clarinet player and guitarist cranking out Aerosmith’s “Dream On” in the main concourse, and the two share a baffled glance and laugh.

“You confused east and west, didn’t you?” MJ asks as they begin to climb the stairs to the street.

“What?” Peter asks, voice breathy. He slows his climb after the first few steps, MJ matching his speed.

“My address. Did you confuse east and west? Is that why you were late?”

“Maybe?” he answers, trying not to smile. “Does that…happen a lot?”

“What, male suitors getting confused about my address?”

Peter blushes, tries to contain a laugh, but ends up coughing. They’re deep and chesty, sound just as painful as they feel. He rubs at his chest and grimaces; he definitely won’t miss this when he’s feeling better.

“Yeah, it happens a lot with deliveries and Ubers,” MJ continues, as if Peter’s coughing isn’t even happening. “They go to 28 west instead of east. Do you know how many times I’ve had to walk to meet them? It takes exactly six and a half minutes if you time the lights right.” They reach the landing and pull off to the side along the park. “You good?” she asks, Peter nodding, his open mouth creating quick little puffs in the cool air. “You promised you’d tell me,” she reminds him.

“I _pinkie_ promised.”

“You did, but the real question is, are you gonna keep it?”

“Guess we’ll find out, hm?” he jokes, winking. “Toward Whole Foods,” he adds, gesturing.

“You’re taking me on a date to…Whole Foods?” MJ raises an eyebrow. Without missing a beat, she adds, “Aw, Peter. You really shouldn’t have.”

“What?” He looks offended. “No, I’m not…I’m not taking you on a date to… You really thought I’d take you on a date to _Whole Foods_? What kind of person…” He puts his hands up in defeat. “You know what, never mind.”

“It _is _kind of the perfect date, if you think about it. Each person can get what they want. And they do have a little seating area.”

“We’re not going on a date to Whole Foods.”

“So, then, where are we going? I’m starving,” she says, and Peter nods toward the crossing, the two catching the countdown just in time to make it across. It’s not until he pulls the door to Max Brenner Chocolatier open that MJ realizes where they’re eating.

Chocolate.

Peter’s brought her to a chocolate restaurant.

For dinner.

“I-I made a reservation?” he’s asking the hostess. “For two? Under Parker.”

The pore over the menu, Peter ordering a burger while MJ gets a pasta dish. They eat and talk about school, decathlon. They drink hot chocolate in hug mugs and have a milk mustache contest, MJ winning when she ends up getting it on her nose. Peter’s sure he hasn’t laughed this hard in months and being inside a place that smells like chocolate with MJ is a welcome break from the cold and walking.

When the waiter clears their table, MJ pulls her wallet out.

Peter grins. “May gave me some money for Christmas, and since I didn’t get you a gift, I figured I could pay for dinner tonight.”

“You don’t have to pay for this, Peter. I brought money. We can split.”

“I kind of already paid?” he says, scrunching his face. “When you went to the bathroom earlier. Don’t hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” she reminds him. “But next time, we split. I like to go Dutch.”

“I thought you said this was you first date?”

“I thought you said this was _your_ first date.”

“It is.”

“Mine too.”

Peter laughs, shakes his head. He loves that MJ’s awkward jokes makes him laugh so hard that his cheeks hurt, that the soft light on her skin is giving her a beautiful glow and he’s falling even harder for her. He’s always had a thing for MJ, but lately, it only seems to be growing bigger and bigger the more time they spend together.

“I have one more surprise,” he says, getting up and reaching out for her hand. 

x

The end up at The Strand bookstore across Broadway, spend nearly forty minutes on the main floor browsing poetry, current events, and a display of funny mugs quoting Shakespeare and Chaucer. They make their way up to the second floor and reminisce over the picture books before they share recommendations in the young adult section.

They’ve been at the bookstore for nearly an hour and half when MJ sees that Peter’s leaning against the display table to support him, is breathing a little heavily as he pretends to peruse the stack of young adult books in front of him. His wheeze is present, not in an obvious way, but MJ has gotten used to its presence, knows that it usually means he’s needs his inhaler or a treatment. She doesn’t press or comment, just picks up a book and examines the back cover.

“Think I need to sit down,” Peter says a moment later, and when MJ looks up, she sees that Peter’s gone stark white, is panting as he grips the side of the table. “Kind of…nauseous?”

“Yeah, we can sit,” she says quietly, burying her panic as she looks for somewhere that isn’t the floor. “Hey, there’s a place over here.” She tries not to gain attention as she directs him over to a dark green bench that looks familiar in a way that she can’t quite place, makes sure he’s sitting upright rather than hunched before pulling his scarf off.

“S’really warm in here,” he says, unbuttoning his jacket so that he can shrug it and his backpack off. He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and tugs at the collar around his neck as he drags in quick, wheezy breaths. “My antibiotics hit me hard…after I eat. And I had to skip a treatment...since we’d be out. I think it’s catching up to me. It’s also…like a sauna in here.”

“What do you need?” she asks, a hand on his shoulder.

He doesn’t answer, just unzips his backpack and grabs his inhaler. He uncaps and shakes it before taking a puff, holds his breath for a few seconds before he takes another. MJ’s rubbing his back, and while part of him is filling with embarrassment, he also feels like he can breathe again, and he’s glad that there aren’t many people around, that none of them have taken notice of his loud breathing. He puts his inhaler back and takes a swig of the water Tony made him pack before he left.

“I can pay for an Uber,” she offers.

“No, MJ,” Peter says, shaking his head. “I’m not letting you do that. Tony said Happy could come pick us up if I wasn’t feeling well. Was hoping it didn’t come to this, but my lungs feel really heavy right now.”

“It was all of that chocolate,” MJ says, and then they’re both laughing, Peter’s cheeks hurting from how wide they’re being stretched. “Oh, I just realized where this bench is from!” she says. “The existence of broccoli does not, in any way, affect the taste of chocolate.”

“Huh?”

“_The Fault in Our Stars_? John Green? Hazel says, “The existence of broccoli does not, in any way, affect the taste of chocolate.”

“That’s the movie about the kids with cancer.”

“It’s so much more than a movie about kids with cancer. It’s also a book. A well-written and thoroughly enjoyable, yet sad, book. Anyway, there’s this part where Hazel analyzes the validity of the old adage that “Without pain, how could we know joy?” She unravels it when she says, “The existence of broccoli does not, in any way, affect the taste of chocolate.”

“Meaning, you don’t need to know pain in order to know joy?”

“Exactly.”

“Steve said something to that effect to me the other day. About difficult experiences building character, and I don’t know, it felt kind of cheap? Like I think I was a good person before all of this? It kind of made me feel like I deserve not being able to breathe or something. I know he didn’t mean it like that, but it’s how it felt.”

MJ is looking at Peter with narrowed eyes that make him feel like she’s boring into his soul, analyzing every word of his response.

“Sorry, was that too much?”

“Peter, I don’t think you could be too much if you tried. I was just thinking, is all.”

“About?”

“I was thinking that you need to read this book.”

“_The Fault in Our Stars?”_

“Sometimes books are an escape, and other times they’re therapy. I think that this one is both.”

“Therapy.”

“Is there something wrong with therapy?” she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear, and it’s the self-conscious way she does it, how her eyes shift away from his suddenly, that lets Peter know that she’s either in or has been in therapy at some point in her life.

“N-no, I-I was in therapy, after Ben died, I just…”

“I’m sorry Steve said that to you. I know you look up to him.”

“It’s fine,” he says, shrugging.

“It’s not fine, Peter. I wish people would stop saying shit like that. It’s patronizing. And it blames people for being sick. You didn’t ask for this. No one does.”

“I feel like you’re the only one who’s been treating me like I’m not about to shatter into a million pieces.”

“What do you mean? You said Tony’s been awesome about everything.”

“He has, but he’s also been really tense since I got sick.” He keeps from going into detail about Tony’s situation on the side of the road.

“Isn’t that, like, the frequency he always vibrates at, though?”

Peter thinks of the Tony most people see, the one at Stark Expos and press conferences, how he oozes confidence and vitality. And then he thinks of the Tony in pajamas with a five o’clock shadow who drinks too much coffee and oozes stress, vomits on the side of the road because of his heart meds, and he wonders how MJ was able to see through _all of it_.

“I’ve practically been living at your house this week,” she reminds him. “I’m observant, if you haven’t noticed. It’s a problem. I’m working on it.”

“It’s not a problem, MJ,” Peter says with a small laugh. “It’s you. I…I like that about you.”

“In that case, the sheer volume of coffee Tony guzzles in a day is disturbing. And Pepper is hiding vegetables in your food. Wasn’t sure if you noticed that, but, she is. And May hasn’t been around much, but it’s obvious that she wants to see and spend time with you by how often she texts. And Tony’s only kind of memorized your med schedule; he programmed everything into FRIDAY, but he does get points for being on top of all of it. It’s a lot, by the way. Like, a lot a lot. He…he really cares about you, Peter. And he’s really nice to me when I come over even though he doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall.”

“The vegetables thing makes a lot of sense,” Peter says with a laugh. “May’s just doing her best. She has a lot on her plate between work and worrying about me. And I had a feeling about FRIDAY and the med schedule. It is a lot to remember. I know he doesn’t trust me yet with everything. I don’t even know if I trust myself with everything yet, but Tony and Pepper have been really good to me.”

“You’re really lucky, Peter. That you have so many people who care about you.”

He thinks she’s trying to open up about her home life, but he isn’t completely sure, doesn’t want to pry or make her feel like she has to tell him about it. That, and he knows he’s lucky, living with Tony and Pepper while May is away, not having to worry about money for shoes or a new backpack; he’s always losing that damn backpack. Not that he asks Tony for money. He knows it’s expensive to feed and house a growing teenager, especially one with expensive medical needs, and May’s made sure he doesn’t forget how hard the last few years have been money-wise. He knows he’s lucky, and yet, in everything that’s happened with his health, he feels like that luck is starting to run out.

“That doesn’t mean the people who care about you are perfect, though,” she adds, and he sees something in her eyes, a kind of acknowledgement that home is about the people but also about the emotional stuff, too. “My parents are great, you know?” And Peter doesn’t know, because she’s never talked about them. “But they’re not great _together_.”

“That’s gotta be rough,” he says.

“It is and it isn’t. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” he says, though he can’t remember his parents, doesn’t know what living with his parents would be like. May always tries, Peter knows, doesn’t blame her for her shortcomings. And Tony and Pepper feel a bit like parents, he thinks. They would both show up in the middle of the night when he started staying with them and had attacks, which was weird, at first. But Tony would always jump right in, get him sitting and set up with a breathing treatment. There was never hesitation on his part, just a natural, father-like demeanor that Peter hadn’t expected in the beginning. He remembers thinking _Tony Stark really does have a heart_ after he’d called May in a panic, unable to breathe or get to his nebulizer in the living room while she was away on a business trip, when Tony had nearly kicked the door in, scooped him up off the floor like he weighed nothing, and gotten him breathing normally again. He’d barely known Peter at that point, hell, Peter had only _just_ started the Stark Internship, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t one of the most awkward experiences of his life. That was the first time he’d called Peter Underoos, and while Peter had had to look it up afterwards to figure out what it meant, he knew he’d said it with affection in an effort to get a nearly blue Peter calm and breathing. He’d thought that attack was bad, that it couldn’t get much worse. But Tony being there, holding him up and coaching him, meant more than Peter could put into words. Tony, Peter thinks, is for sure the closest thing he has to a father right now, and he’s suddenly not sure how he’d get through _any_ of this without him. 

“You’re still really wheezy,” MJ comments. She looks like she’s kicking herself for even mentioning it, but Peter doesn’t mind. He’s feeling unreasonably tired all of a sudden, like he might not make it down the stairs, to the subway, and home. “Sorry, I feel like I overstepped there.”

“You didn’t,” he says, pulling his phone out. “I can text Happy. Did you want to…come over? Watch a movie?” He feels his breath coming short again and sighs. _Definitely need a treatment_.

“I love how you think you had to ask,” she says, laughing as Peter texts Happy their location. He bundles back up despite the heat and they take the elevator down to the first floor. They can’t wait in the entryway, because of how it’s shaped, and Peter weighs standing in the crowd versus standing on the street. It’s too warm inside, but it’s also too cold outside. And he feels like his knees might give out any moment.

“Wrap your scarf over your mouth and nose. It’ll help warm the air so it doesn’t shock your lungs,” MJ says, and Peter loves that she’s read his mind. He likes to think that means they work together, that they’re a good fit. The wait outside beside the doorway for Happy to pull up, hold hands and admire the Christmas decorations up and down Broadway as Peter leans in to MJ and plants a kiss on her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any favorite lines? :)
> 
> Also, any thoughts on the new fic I mentioned? (I'm working on a second IronDad fic where Tony survives End Game and Morgan is present! In the new fic, Peter will have type one diabetes and is struggling to balance being Spiderman with the rollercoaster of highs and lows. Cue Dad Mode Tony who is driving himself crazy trying to support Peter. There will be whump, but also tons of family and MJ fluff!)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter is up! Peter finally goes back to school. :) Thank you all for reading and commenting!!

**Chapter 14  
Mon, January 6**

Peter’s glad he’s already faced MJ, because he knows seeing Mrs. Benninger and the rest of his chem class his first day back is going to throw his anxiety into overdrive. That, and he has to check in with the nurse’s office at lunch like he’s in elementary school. Tony’s orders. He knows it’s really May’s orders, though, that she already spent an hour on the phone with the nurse this past Friday going over every little detail of his treatment plan. May has been a wreck about sending Peter back to school. An overbearing, obsessive wreck. 

Which is why he’s going back on a Monday, even though everyone else went back last Thursday.

His backpack is weighed down with extra inhalers, nebulizer medication, and epi-pens for the nurse’s office, as well as his own set. Tony’s even bought him a smart case for his epi-pens that connects to an app on all of their phones. It gives Tony and May an alert and his location when it’s opened. At first, Peter found it ridiculous, especially since he knows his StarkWatch can sense his vitals and has an emergency button, but the thought of having another severe attack is the only reason he hasn’t fought the added layer of protection. He’s been thinking about that attack, how he was convinced he was drowning and dying, more than he wants to. A _lot more_ than he’s wanted to. But then again, there’s been a lot in the last few weeks that Peter hasn’t wanted to think about that’s been right there, in his face, forcing its way into his everyday life.

Peter wakes up groggy and anxious, fights Tony on his morning treatment even though his lungs feel like they need it. He tries to get away with an extra puff of his reliever inhaler instead, but Tony catches on quickly when he hears him wheezing in the kitchen, makes him do the Atrovent/albuterol treatment that tastes like metal, makes him shaky, and can’t go in the quiet, quick nebulizer. It takes him fifteen minutes to complete it at the kitchen island, makes his mouth dry and his body wired, earns Tony the cold shoulder for the next half hour while Pepper forces a bowl of oatmeal and some fruit on Peter. He downs his morning pills, hates the way the chalky steroids combine with the aftertaste of his treatment and his breakfast. Tony insists that Happy drive him to school, and Pete doesn’t mean to be so grumpy about it when he protests with a scowl, but he wants to be left alone, wants to get today over with as soon as possible. He’s not used to being up so early, is struggling to keep his eyes open, and his spidey senses are making the awful taste in his mouth from the medications unbearable.

“He needs his independence back,” Pepper whispers to Tony as she pours him a second cup of black coffee, Peter in the living room putting his coat on. “Let him take the subway. Today’s gonna be hard enough. He’s already having a difficult morning.”

“He’s not usually like this,” Tony whispers back, taking the cup from Pepper.

“Yeah, well, he’s not usually this sick, Tony.”

“Doesn’t excuse it.”

“No, it doesn’t, but you have to pick your battles. He did all his meds, ate some breakfast, is running on time. Let him choose how he wants to get to school today. I still think he needs another week, but Bruce and May cleared him, so my opinion doesn’t count.”

“Hey, have a good day, honey. Call or text if you need us, okay?” Pepper calls out when she sees that Peter’s ready to go.

“Thanks, Pep,” Peter answers, the elevator doors closing down the hallway. He puts his headphones on, starts a playlist, and heads for the subway once he’s let out at the ground floor.

Ned meets him at his locker before the first bell, is talking so rapidly about the Lego kit he got for Christmas that Peter’s mind is swimming as it tries to keep up. His spidey senses are overwhelmed by the sheer volume in the hallway, and he hopes he can make it through the day without his pounding headache getting worse. He rubs his temple and tries to think about what books he needs for the first three periods.

“Ned, you’re my best friend, but I need you to slow down. It’s hard to hear you over the noise and I’m already getting a headache,” he says, sighing. He places his English/chemistry binder in his bag and reaches behind a stack of textbooks to grab his calculator.

“You’re sure you’re ready to be back?”

Peter’s trying to hide how offended he is, but he knows Ned can see it on his face. “Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know, you just seem off.” Ned shrugs.

Peter slams his locker closed and fiddles with the lock so that it’s cleared. “Thanks. Nice to see you, too,” Peter grumbles.

“Peter, come on,” Ned argues, following Peter as he walks away. They have two different teachers for math, and Peter ducks into his classroom just as the bell rings, leaving Ned behind in the hallway.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s feeling weaker than he thought he would. He can’t zip through the hallways as efficiently, can’t get his breath back as quickly as he’s used to after climbing the stairs. He’d never actually admit it, but Tony was right about the elevator pass; it would make getting to and from class infinitely easier. His senses overload during group work, when the bell rings, during transitions in the hallway. It’s easier not to talk, to avoid looking his classmates in the eye; he knows they want details about what happened, that they’ve been talking behind his back and giving him looks of sympathy and disapproval all morning, and it’s only making everything _worse_.

He's feeling somewhat hopeful when he slips into his seat in chemistry because it’s his first class of the day with MJ, but then he hears Flash’s snide laugh from across the room and freezes.

“Nice swan dive you did before the break. Thinking of joining the diving team, Parker?” Flash taunts, winning some laughter from the small group sitting around him.

Peter chooses not to respond, taps his pencil anxiously as he waits for class to begin. He hates that the teachers have to stand in the hallway to greet students, knows Mrs. Benninger would gladly serve Flash a referral for his behavior. He sighs, slides down in his seat, and glances at the door to see if MJ’s arrived.

She hasn’t, and neither has Ned.

If he and Ned _were_ talking and Ned was in class, he’d have some kind of back-up, someone to tell Flash to “fuck off,” but right now, it’s just Peter trying to come up with a possible retort for Flash’s next snarky comment. He looks around for MJ again, but she’s nowhere in sight.

“Maybe wrestling? Since you like so much time spent splayed out on the floor?” Flash adds.

More laughter.

“Oh, that’s right,” Flash continues. “You’re too skinny for that now. No weight class to put you in. Did Tony Stark even feed you over the break or what?”

“Enough,” MJ warns, her arms wrapped around her books as she stands beside her seat.

Peter breathes a sigh of relief as Flash feigns surprise. “Oh, is your little girlfriend standing up for you now?”

“Shut up, Flash. Those of us who had to suffer through your bullshit in middle school clearly remember you peeing your pants on a field trip in seventh grade, so unless you want me to rehash a play-by-play for those that weren’t lucky enough to be there, I’d kindly _fuck off_.”

“Kindly?”

“Fuck off, Flash!” she warns, the bell ringing to start class.

“Thank you,” he mouths to MJ, sliding back up so that he can open his binder and take notes. She winks and turns her attention toward the board, leans over her notebook. He’s glad she doesn’t ask how he’s feeling, just goes back to what she always does during class: Drawing. Sneaking glances of her sketching between copying from the board is a welcome relief for Peter; he’s not looking forward to his time in the nurse’s office during lunch, is thinking that maybe he’d rather spend it with MJ in the library where it’s quiet and not too crowded. He wonders if he could manage it, strike a deal with the nurse, use the new quiet nebulizer Tony’s gotten him for their trip and hide away in a corner.

The thought has him in decent spirits by the next period, until he has an argument with his gym teacher, Mr. Campbell, who puts him on the spot in front of most of his class because his medical excuse paperwork has to be validated by the secretary in the dean’s office. The sudden attention throws him off his game, drains the last of his energy. He trudges to the dean’s office, and then the nurse’s office at the start of lunch, rubs at the tightness growing in his chest from being overdue for a treatment, and weighs having Tony pick him up early so that he can go home and nap. He gets stuck there for the whole period because he’s forgotten his portable neb, has to use the clunky school one that takes forever while Shannon, the younger of the two nurses, goes over the treatment plan that May sent over. He barely has time to eat and down his midday meds before his last three classes of the day. His brain feels muddled, hand moving as he copies from the board, but none of the information wants to stick.

It’s the most frustrating side effect of the meds, other than the shakiness, and there’s no way around it.

When the final bell rings, he’s the first one out the side door, is swiped in and on the subway before MJ or Ned can find him.

“How was your first day back?” Tony asks when Peter drops his backpack on the living room floor and flops belly down on the couch around three in the afternoon.

“Mr. Campbell gave me a hard time about being excused from gym, I forgot my new nebulizer and did the longest treatment ever during lunch on the old school machine, _and_ Ned and I had a fight and didn’t speak all day.” He purposely leaves out Flash bullying him.

“Not so great, huh?”

“Think I need a nap.”

“How much homework you got?”

“Not much.”

“Due for another treatment, kiddo.”

“I just did one, like, three hours ago,” he says, groaning. “And it took almost twenty minutes. I’m going on thirty-five minutes of treatments so far today and it’s only three.”

“You take your pills after lunch?”

“Always do.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it consistently. You wanna do your treatment right here, or-”

“Just give me a few minutes.”

“You’re going to fall asleep, and then you’re going to miss it completely. I know you, kid. Come on. You wanna nap through it? I can get you a mask. You look beat.”

“It’s impossible to nap through something that makes your heart feel like it’s running a race!”

“If you miss this one, it’s gonna push your last one off until late and then you’re not gonna sleep. I don’t want a repeat of the other night. Treatment and then nap. Come on.”

“Need a break,” he whines, glad that his face is pressed into the couch because he suddenly feels like crying, like having to get up will suck up whatever energy he has left, and he’s not sure he wants to spend it on that. 

“You’ll get a break when all of this settles down, kiddo.”

“I’ll wash the dishes for Pepper after dinner if you just let me take a quick nap.”

“I see what you’re trying to do. Come on. Let’s go.”

Reluctantly, Peter lifts his body from the couch and grabs his backpack, gives the sigh of all sighs to show his annoyance. “Thought you were supposed to be working,” Peter grouses as Tony pushes him toward his room.

“I’m trying to take Pepper’s advice and relax.” He makes a disgusted face. “Hating it so far.”

“Hate is a strong word,” Peter comments.

“It is,” Tony says, cocking his head. “You get that quote from MJ, too?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Tony comments, grinning. “I emailed her and told her she should come over Wednesday to start her internship.”

“I’m starting to feel like you prefer MJ’s company over mine.”

“MJ doesn’t try and bargain with me to get out of doing treatments.”

“MJ doesn’t have asthma.”

“True,” Tony pretends to consider.

“I can do this myself, you know,” Peter complains as he sets up his own machine.

“Oh, you can?” Tony throws back. “Because you almost missed this morning’s, and last I checked, you’re supposed to be doing at least four, if not five, every day.”

“Really not in the mood for your sarcasm, Tony.”

“Not feeling warm, are you?” Tony asks as Peter flips the switch and puts the mouthpiece between his lips. “You’re extra mood today.”

“Even if I had a fever, you’d already know.”

“His temperature is currently 99.2, sir,” FRIDAY tattles.

“Case in point,” Peter groans around the mouthpiece, throwing himself back against the pillows as he kicks his shoes off.

“I was hoping you’d never embody the broody teenager vibe, and yet, here we are,” Tony jokes.

Peter throws a small pillow across the room, narrowly missing Tony as he leaves.

“Remind me to tell Bruce to taper your steroid dose, Spider Brat!” he yells from the hallway.

Ten minutes later, when Tony comes to check on Peter, he finds the teen asleep and curled against his pillows, treatment still going, the mouthpiece propped up with a pillow. _So much for not being able to sleep through it,_ Tony thinks to himself. He waits for it to start sputtering, turns the machine off and gently removes the mouthpiece, placing it on the nightstand. He stands in the doorway for a moment upon leaving, listens to Peter’s steady, even breathing, and finds himself feeling grateful as he closes the door, leaving it open just a crack, just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got so much amazing feedback about my next fic! Thank you guys for reading and replying! What else would you like to see in the new fic?! What kinds of scenes?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I had such positive feedback regarding my new fic idea and I'm so glad everyone is so excited! I have a snipped posted on my Tumblr @heartofcathedrals that may or may not make it into the fic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the new chapter! HDAnalyst, LyraLollygagger, and slowdownsugar all took a look at this chapter as it was coming together and I'm super grateful for their help!!

**Wed, Jan 8**

“Why are you avoiding me?” Ned asks Peter at lunch on Wednesday between bites of macaroni and cheese. They’d stood beside each other on the lunch line, are _sitting_ across from each other, and yet, they haven’t spoken at all in the ten minutes they’ve been together.

“I’m not avoiding you,” Peter states as he picks at his food. He’s done with his antibiotics, but his stomach is still off from the steroids. He reminds himself to stop at the nurse when he’s done to do his treatment and take his midday pills, tries not to sigh because he knows Ned’s in just as shitty a mood as he is based on the question he’s just asked. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?” he adds, full-well knowing he’s being ridiculous.

Ned puts his fork down. “Clearly, you are, so if I’ve done something, I’d like to know, because this is getting kind of weird. We’re on day three of barely talking at all and I don’t even understand why!”

“I’m just really tired, Ned. Like, exhausted on a level I didn’t think was possible. I’m overwhelmed by coming back to school, and I have to get to the nurse in like,” he pauses, checks his watch, “five minutes for meds and,” he pauses again, sighing as he puts his fork down. “You probably wouldn’t understand.”

“Or maybe I would? If you’d actually open up and tell me literally anything?”

“Not the correct use of literally.”

“Peter, you didn’t even tell me you were okay until like, _Christmas_! I know MJ was worried about you, because she was texting _me_, but I was scared, too. I’m still kind of scared. You don’t seem like yourself and you’re super wheezy all the time, and I feel like there’s stuff you’re not telling me.”

“There’s not much to tell, Ned.”

“We talk about everything, Peter. It’s always been like that, but now, suddenly, it’s not? What gives?!”

“I’ve been busy with Spiderman stuff.” He shrugs, picks his fork back up but doesn’t eat. His stomach grumbles.

“That’s funny, because the news just had an entire segment on how Spiderman has been MIA since before Christmas, and as far as I know, you’re the only Spiderman in our universe.”

Peter doesn’t answer.

“I get it, Peter. You’d rather spend your time with MJ. It’s fine.” He shrugs, goes back to his macaroni and cheese. “I just wish you’d tell me the truth instead of leaving me in the dark.”

Peter looks up. “No, Ned, it’s not like that.”

“If I was hanging out with a girl like MJ, I’d probably be doing the same thing, but I’d tell you about it, you know? Maybe I’d even invite you over so we could all hang out sometimes.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to hang out with me over break, Ned. I was…really sick.” There. He’s said it, admitted it out loud.

“We could have played video games or worked on my new Lego project-”

“I was too sick to do any of that, Ned. I couldn’t even...” he trails and looks away, not wanting to add the word _shower_. He puts his fork down and takes a breath, feels like he owes Ned more of an explanation. “I spent, like, two weeks on oxygen, and I still have to wear it at night because it gets hard to breathe, and I’m doing, like, five treatments a day with two different meds, and then there’s a bunch of inhalers and pills I have to take, all so that I can _breathe_, and I have to start these injections soon to keep the attacks from happening because my immune system is trying to kill me and I’m just…between school and keeping my lungs somewhat functionable, the word _tired _doesn’t even describe it. It feels like the mitochondria in my cells are just not working and nothing that I do helps and May’s telling me each day is a fresh start but I’m just trying to make up ground from the day before because I’m so _tired_ and they’re just stacking, one on top of another, and I’ve only been back at school for three days and I’m…I’m…” he pauses, puts his elbows on the table and covers his face with his hands to keep from crying. He definitely doesn’t want to do that here, in the cafeteria, in front of everyone. In front of _Flash_, who usually sits a few tables away.

“You could have told me about all of this, Peter. I would’ve been there for you.” His voice is soft with understanding, and Peter knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he wants nothing more than to be left alone, to just finish eating, get to the nurse, and maybe take a ten minute nap on one of the cots while he does his treatment.

“I wasn’t really up for company,” he whispers from beneath his hands. “I was too sick, Ned.”

“MJ was over practically every day.”

“MJ invited herself over and basically watched me wheeze and sleep while movies played on the TV, so you weren’t exactly missing much.” He refuses to move his hands, doesn’t want anyone to see his eyes filled with tears. He’s blinking them away, hopes that when he looks up, it won’t be obvious.

He knows it will be.

“Hey,” Ned is saying softly. “I’m not mad, Peter. I Just wanted to know what was going on.”

“And now you know.”

“It was really that bad?”

And Peter just nods because he doesn’t want to tell him about _almost dying_.

Thinking about _almost dying_ yesterday sent him into a panic attack on the subway, left him getting off two stops before the Tower so that he could get to the street level and find air. He’d walked home in the cold, wonders what Tony and May would say if they found out he’d spent 20 minutes walking in the bitter, dry air.

_Not_ thinking about _almost dying_ is better than letting it get in his head.

“I have to get to the nurse,” he says, sniffling as he quickly fills his tray with his milk carton and napkins to throw in the trash.

“But you didn’t even finish.”

“I’m not hungry.” _Anymore_, he wants to add, but doesn’t.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, it’s fine, MJ-” he says, pausing. “MJ usually meets me. It’ll only be like, five minutes, so it’s not a big deal anyway,” he adds, but he knows Ned isn’t buying it.

“I can bring my Lego set over later-”

“I have my internship.” _That I’m not even sure I’ll be awake enough to go to_, Peter thinks.

“With MJ.”

_So he knows. How did he expect him not to?  
_  
“Ned,” Peter tries, but his friend is already walking away with his tray, and even though Peter puts his backpack on and picks up his own, follows him, he can’t keep up.

x

MJ can sense that something’s bothering Peter while they’re together in the nurse’s office, and then again during their internship. Tony’s had them coding a sample for an upcoming conference, and while MJ’s gotten a considerable amount of work done, Peter seems frustrated, _stuck_, where she was nearly an hour ago.

“Take a break, Pete, before you write code that even Happy can’t debug,” Tony comments from across the lab without looking up. “Actually, scratch that, I’m closing shop,” he adds when he realizes that the kid is wheezy, looks over at him and notices that he’s already half asleep. “MJ, you wanna stay for dinner?”

“Yeah, that would be great, sir. Thank you,” she says, cleaning up her area and grabbing her backpack.

“Treatment, kiddo, before that wheeze turns into something worse,” Tony points out as he comes over to Peter and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You feeling okay?”

“I know, I know. And yeah, I’m just tired. Been a long week,” Peter grumbles as he shrugs out from under Tony’s grip, gets up from his stool, and puts his backpack on. His chest feels tight, head fuzzy and heavy with fatigue, and all he’s been able to think about since he got up this morning is _sleeping_.

“Only Wednesday, Pete. Still got two more days to go.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Cut the attitude, kid.”

He mumbles something under his breath, is thankful that Tony doesn’t have superhearing. They take the elevator, curl up on Peter’s bed while he does a treatment. He fights to keep his eyes open, wants to spend time with MJ, but his body feels like it’s being pinned down by a giant boulder.

“Too tired to breathe,” he whispers around the mouthpiece.

“Not a thing, Peter,” MJ jokes.

“Definitely…a thing.”

“I brought you something,” she says, sitting up to unzip her backpack. Peter watches as she pulls out a copy of _The Fault in Our Stars_.

“Book from the bench?” It’s all Peter can manage.

“Let me know what you think.”

He hums a thank you.

“I can go,” she offers, taking his hand in hers.

He shakes his head, closes his eyes.

“You pinkie promised that you’d tell me if you weren’t feeling well,” she adds, squeezing his hand.

“Doesn’t count now,” he mumbles.

“It always counts, Peter. I know you feel like shit. You have dark bags under your eyes and you’re wheezing more than usual. You can be honest with me.”

“Don’t wanna be alone,” he whispers.

“Because you don’t feel well?”

He nods, eyes still closed.

“You feel that shitty?”

He nods again, face twisting as he tries not to cry.

“Hey,” she says squeezing his hand again as she puts her head on his pillow, the sides of their foreheads touching. “You want me to get Tony?”

He shakes his head no and sniffles.

“You sure?”

“Sorry,” he says, gripping the mouthpiece a moment later with his teeth so that he can wipe under his eyes with his free hand.

“You don’t have to be sorry about this, Peter. Not with me.”

“S’like breathing…through a straw.”

“Did you miss any of your meds today?” She remembers sitting with him in the nurse, knows he at least did a treatment and took some pills.

“No,” he says, his eyes open now, and it comes out with a slight whine, like he’s defeated and frustrated. “Took _extra_.”

“I’m gonna go get Tony, okay?”

“Don’t!” There’s power in his words, in the way he looks at her with wide, panicked eyes. “_Please_.”

“Peter, if you’re sick-”

“I’m okay!”

“You just agreed that you feel like shit. That’s the opposite of okay, Peter.”

“It’s fine. I’m just tired because…I’m back at school and…the internship… Thought I’d…feel better…than I do by now.”

“Peter,” she warns. “If you don’t tell me the truth, I’m leaving.”

“MJ, please don’t start with me,” he whines. “I don’t need you mad at me, too.” 

“Is this why you and Ned are fighting? Did you guys have this exact conversation?”

“No,” he says, then reconsiders. “Maybe? Yes?” He groans. “I don’t know.”

“Did he comment on your wheezing?”

Peter huffs a wheezy “Yeah.”

“He texted me, you know. He’s worried about you.”

“_Everyone’s_…worried about me,” he says, panting. “If I could…pay people…to _stop_…”

“Alright,” she says, seeing how worked up Peter is getting. She scoots in closer, softens her voice. “How about you focus on breathing and I do the talking?”

He closes his eyes, nods, and MJ pulls the book into her lap. “_The Fault in Our Stars_ by John Green. Chapter 1. Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently, and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death.”

Peter snorts, MJ continuing. “Whenever you read a cancer booklet or website or whatever, they always list depression among the side effects of cancer. But, in fact, depression is not a side effect of cancer. Depression is a side effect of dying. (Cancer is also a side effect of dying. Almost everything is, really.) But my mom believed I required treatment, so she took me to see my Regular Doctor Jim, who agreed that I was veritably swimming in a paralyzing and totally clinical depression, and that therefore my meds should be adjusted and also I should attend a weekly Support Group.”

“This feels a little…too real,” Peter comments.

“I can stop reading.”

“No, keep reading. I like it.”

“This Support Group featured a rotating cast of characters in various states of tumor-driven unwellness. Why did the cast rotate? A side effect of dying.”

Peter laughs again, even though he feels like he shouldn’t because _cancer_ and _death_, but he can’t help himself. “This is gold,” he adds.

“Glad you like it so far.”

MJ reads on, Peter swapping nebulizer cups and medications a little while in so that he can do a second treatment, the two cuddling back up, Peter careful to keep the mist from the mouthpiece from getting in her face. They don’t notice Tony checking in on them from the small crack in the doorway, just out of sight, listening and watching to see how Peter’s doing.

“Isaac leaned a hand against the snack table and focused his huge eye on me,” MJ reads. “Okay, so I went into clinic this morning, and I was telling my surgeon that I’d rather be deaf than blind. And he said, ‘It doesn’t work that way,’ and I was, like, ‘Yeah, I realize it doesn’t work that way; I’m just saying I’d rather be deaf than blind if I had the choice, which I realize I don’t have,’ and he said, ‘Well, the good news is that you won’t be deaf,’ and I was like, ‘Thank you for explaining that my eye cancer isn’t going to make me deaf. I feel so fortunate that an intellectual giant like yourself would deign to operate on me.’”

Peter chortles, has a grin on his face that is noticeably different than the look of exhaustion Tony remembers in the lab. Tony smiles, checks his watch to see Peter’s vitals and listens a little longer just to be sure that he’s okay, before heading to the kitchen to help Pepper with dinner.

**Thursday, January 9**

Ned shows up unannounced around six after school on Thursday, his backpack on and a box of Legos in his hands. Happy lets him up, gives a few short knocks on Peter’s closed bedroom door.

“Yeah?” Peter asks, opening it. He’s got his oxygen on, is annoyed that he’s been interrupted in the midst of writing an enduring issue paper for global history that he was supposed to finish in class but couldn’t because he’d had to ask for a pass to the nurse for a treatment. “Ned,” he says, pausing for a moment.

He hasn’t wanted Ned to see him like this, _see his room like this_, with stackers of medication and machines to help him breathe.

And now, he doesn’t have a choice, because Ned is here, holding a box of Legos in his hand, shifting his weight awkwardly because he isn’t sure how Peter is going to react to this unanticipated visit.

“This okay?” Happy asks in the awkward silence, and Peter nods, bites his lip, opens his door for Ned to come in.

“I couldn’t do the cold shoulder thing anymore,” Ned admits, standing in the middle of Peter’s room. “I don’t really have a lot of friends, Peter, and it’s been really lonely without you.”

Peter just stands there, doesn’t know what to say. He watches as Ned focuses first on the nebulizer on his nightstand, then on his stacker, and finally on the cart with his BiPap and vest machines. His eyes fall back on Peter and his oxygen.

“Why didn’t you tell me about all of this?” he asks, and Peter just looks up at the ceiling with watery eyes, can’t look Ned in the face, because he was fine two minutes ago when he was trying to come up with a crafty way to connect nationalism between the seemingly disconnected documents in the task, and now he’s _not_.

It’s been like this all week. One minute he’s fine and the next, he just crumbles. He clenches his jaw, tries not to let himself break down _again_. 

He really, really doesn’t have the energy to break down right now.

“Peter.”

He’s frozen, doesn’t want to speak, think, or breathe. If he doesn’t do any of those things, he can keep from breaking down a little bit longer.

“If it’s a bad time…”

He holds his breath even though he knows he can’t afford it, that it’ll just make everything worse. The panic is clawing its way back at the thought that Ned, his best friend, knows the true extent now that he’s seen it with his own eyes, and it means it’s _real_.

That all of this is real and there’s no escaping it.

“Here,” Ned says, trying to give the box to Peter. “I know it’s for like, babies, but I thought you might get a kick out of it, so I used some of my Christmas money to buy it.”

Peter takes the box into his hands and studies it, his thumb brushing over the picture of Spiderman, of _him_, in the righthand corner of the box. There’s the Stark jet, a Lego version of Happy, which looks nothing like the real Happy, and a pretty spot-on Nick Fury. He sees that Mysterio is included and bites his lip.

“I took Mysterio out. You know, in case it was too much or whatever.”

Peter gives a small smile. “The Stark Jet looks nothing like this,” Peter says quietly with a laugh, but then he looks up at Ned, face twisting as he tries not to cry with the box in his hands, tries to get the words out. _He took Mysterio out._ His voice cracks_. _“You did this for me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I’ve been an asshole?” He feels so small all of a sudden.

“You have,” Ned acknowledges. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your friend, that I don’t care about you. Peter, I’m really worried about you.”

“I’m sorry for being an asshole.” The tears press even though Peter doesn’t want them to. “I’m sorry. I feel like all I’ve been s-saying lately is _s-sorry_,” he whispers. “I don’t want to talk about any of this anymore and it’s all anyone else _can_ talk about, you know? And I keep thinking about how I almost died, Ned. I a-almost…_died_, and…and…I didn’t tell you…because…because…” He looks up, takes the deepest breath he can to stop the tears from coming. It seems to work for a few seconds, but then he feels them, warm on his cheeks, and he sniffles, musters the courage to say the truth. “Because this has been a lot for everyone around me and I feel _really guilty_ about it. You were there after Ben died, and I know that was hard for you, so I didn’t want you to go through that again,” Peter says quietly as more tears fall, putting the box down on his bed so that he can grab a wad of tissues, remove his cannula, and blow his nose. He takes a few deep breaths, tries to quell the burning in his lungs from crying and talking. 

“You thought that I wouldn’t want to be there for you through this?”

“No, Ned, I just,” Peter replies, sighing. “I just didn’t want to _make_ you go through it, too. Tony and May have been stressing over me…and then MJ forced her way in, and she’s been all stressed even though she’s been trying to hide it, so it’s like everyone around me is just on alert and waiting for my lungs to fuck up, and you...” he says, gesturing toward Ned before returning and adjusting his cannula beneath his nose. He takes a few deep breaths, tries to control the wheezing he can hear. “I kept hoping _you_ wouldn't bring it up and...I don’t know how I thought you wouldn’t eventually ask me about it o-or worry, but I was banking on it, enjoying it while it lasted. And then you confronted me about it the _second_ I got back to school, and I was already feeling really defeated and had already had a fight with Tony about my treatments that morning, and I think I just needed one person who hadn’t seen me yet, wasn’t going to focus on my lungs, you know? Who wasn’t going to bring up my wheezing and remind me again that I’m sick and can’t be Spiderman like this.” Peter sits down on his bed, tries to catch his breath and keep from crying again, doesn’t want to look at Ned, who he knows is freaked out by the way his breaths are uneven and loud even with his oxygen and _this_, _this right here_ is why he’s been avoiding Ned. Because Ned has seen him at his worst, and Peter hasn’t wanted to do that to him again, is still not over watching Ned try to cheer him up and make him smile when all he wanted to do was hide beneath his covers and refuse to leave his room after Ben died. “And then you did…you brought it right up, and I felt like I was _collapsing_ on the inside. It’s been _terrifying, a_bsolutely terrifying, not being able to breathe, and I keep reliving the morning that I thought I was _dying_…and I’m supposed to be getting better, but today I had to go for two extra breathing treatments just to get to ninth period, which is why I’m stuck writing this essay at home,” he says, taking a breath and motioning toward his desk, “…about _nationalism_…looking like fucking _Hazel Grace_ from _The Fault in Our Stars_…and I’m _tired_. I’m tired of everyone asking me questions…and looking at me like you are…and I’m tired of having to work to_ breathe_.”

It’s all the air Peter has left.

He closes his eyes, sits up as straight as he can to get a slow, decent breath of air. It sends him straight into a coughing fit, the kind that leaves him hunched. The coughs are deep and painful, nearly have him gagging, but he slows the fit just in time, is left breathless and gasping greedily from the cannula in its wake. His breaths are ragged, strained, but they slowly even out, the two of them sitting there in silence until Peter gets just enough breath back to stop seeing stars.

Ned comes over to the bed, but doesn’t sit. “I would have come, Pete. If you had texted me and told me how sick you were, I would’ve come. You _know _that I would have.”

“You had a cold,” Peter whispers back.

“_Before_ I had the cold.”

Peter shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Ned.”

“I understood when Ben died, and I understand now, so stop telling me that I don’t understand!”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this!”

“What, MJ can see you like this, but I can’t?” Ned looks hurt by the notion, looks just about ready to cry himself.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this because I knew you’d look at me the way you looked at me after Ben died, and I was right, you’re doing it right now! It’s different with Tony and MJ because they didn’t know Ben. But you,” he says, shaking his head and sniffling. “You and May give me that look. Every time she looks at me, I’m reminded that I _can’t_ let her lose me too, Ned. I almost…I almost _died_, and May would be left _all alone_, and I’ve been _trying so hard_ to get better, and I’m failing, and…I-I…” he says, his voice cracking and the tears returning. “I thought that if we didn’t talk, then maybe…maybe you wouldn’t look at me like you are and…I just didn’t want to have to do this to you either is all. I didn’t want to put you through this, too, because you’re my _best friend_ and I don’t want you to have to lose me either.” He’s panting again, sucking in whatever air he can, and he’s trying to calm it down, trying to keep this from becoming a panic attack, doesn’t need FRIDAY to send Tony alerts, which she probably already is, to have him come barging in, overwhelming him with guilt that he’s interrupted _another_ meeting, _another_ phone call, _another_ moment with Pepper with his shitty lungs even though he knows Tony would never let Peter think it. It feels like his airways are the size of straws again, just like they were last night when he told MJ he was too tired to breathe, and-

And suddenly Ned is standing at Peter’s bed and pulling him close, letting Peter ugly sob into his hoodie, Peter reaching out and hugging him right back, squeezing his best friend so tightly with all of the energy he has left because he’s _terrified_, doesn’t want to get sicker, doesn’t want to have another close attack and need the epi-pen to make it to stop, doesn’t want to have to think about his lungs closing, about drowning, about May and Ned and Tony and MJ losing him.

He’d give anything to stop all of that from ever happening.

_Anything.  
_  
Even Spiderman.

They stay like that, Ned standing and Peter sitting, burrowed up against Ned’s shoulder, for what feels like hours to Peter.

“Remember when Ben set the stove on fire and we had to help him put it out and hide it from May?” Ned finally asks, throwing Peter completely off guard.

“Y-yeah?” Peter, replies, his voice a hoarse whisper between sniffles, pulling away slowly as Ned sits on the bed.

“Do you remember what he said when the fire was out?”

“I guess water…really doesn’t put out a…grease fire?” Peter tries to recall as he refits his cannula.

Ned laughs. “Ben was so panicked about May walking in on the stove on fire that he sprayed it with water from the nozzle on the sink.”

“And I grabbed the fire extinguisher,” Peter says with a small laugh through his tears.

“And there was just foam and water _everywhere_, and we had to clean it up, and I _slipped_,” Ned says, laughing harder, and soon they’re both just hysterical, Peter coughing as they laugh, wiping away happy tears.

“He threw the pan out the window,” Peter adds, cracking himself up. “And May came in and was like, _there’s a pan out on the sidewalk, looks kind of like ours_, and she just…_never_ figured it out.”

“Oh, she figured it out all right. She just did her whole _I’m not even gonna ask_ thing she always did with Ben.”

They sit, the air growing silent between them for a few beats.

“I’m mad at you but I’m also not mad at you,” Ned admits. “I mean, I get _why_ you didn’t want me to see you, but you know me. You know I would’ve been here right away if you had told me the truth from the beginning. And knowing you didn’t want me here…after everything…kind of hurts, Peter. I’m not gonna lie. Like, I stayed away because I wanted to give you time, but…”

“I know,” Peter says, fiddling with his oxygen tubing. “I’m sorry, Ned.”

“And you know that if this gets worse, I’ll be here. You just have to _tell me_ and I’ll be here.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“And I know that you hate that everyone is worried about you, but it’s because they _want_ to worry about you. People don’t worry about people they don’t care about. It’s just not how worrying works.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?” Peter laughs.

“No, but this is,” Ned says, putting his hand out to do their signature handshake.

Peter smiles, lets his hand meet Ned’s, thinks about how silly the handshake was when they first made it in 6th grade, when they were too busy arguing over whether to do the fist bump or swooping movement first to think about things like Ben dying or Spiderman or Peter getting sick.

His face twists as he fights tears when they finish, has to bite his lip to stop himself from completely crumbling, because damnit, that handshake reminds him of when things were simple, of when it was just Peter and Ned, taking on the world, one day of middle school at a time, and man, does he wish they could go back.

“You okay?” Ned asks, and Peter nods wordlessly, squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath. “Really? You don’t look okay, Peter. It’s okay to not be okay, you know.”

“I-I’m not okay,” he says, taking a large gulp of air before swallowing the giant lump in his throat. “I-I think I need a distraction? Like a big, big…distraction?” He’s trying not to let himself fall into the panic, to the flashback of that morning where he was drowning in Tony’s arms, doesn’t want to close his eyes again because it will _be there_, _waiting_.

They’d spent the summer after Ben died designing and building a giant K’NEX rollercoaster in Ned’s room, a welcome distraction from the endless casseroles and days where May wouldn’t leave her bedroom, and he _needs_ that again, needs someone to keep his brain so busy that he can’t even remember what drowning in Tony’s arms was like.

“Legos?” Ned asks, shaking the box, and in that moment, Peter _gets it_: Ned has known how sick Peter was _this whole time_, all of these weeks, and he’s been _waiting_ for Peter to let him in. Peter knows that MJ probably went behind his back and texted Ned everything, and he’s not even mad, knows Ned was just trying to be respectful, that Ned would do _anything_ for Peter, anything at all, _just say the word_, and _here he is_, forcing his way in, too, because he _knows_ Peter, knows how much he just needs to keep his hands and mind busy to distract him from all of the scary stuff that this world can throw at you.

_“I understood when Ben died, and I understand now!”_  
  
“Y-yeah,” Peter says, nodding through his tears, grabbing the box and opening the top so that he can dump all of the bags of pieces on his bed. “Wanna see how this inaccurate this Stark jet really is,” he jokes, and when he looks up, he notices that Ned isn’t giving him that look anymore, the one he was so afraid of, is focused completely on the directions that have spilled out. It makes Peter smile as he sniffles his tears away, feels his face dry, grabs the bag that says 1 on it so that they can get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos, comments, ideas/suggestions for my new fic, etc. :) Thank you!!


	16. Chapter 16

**Friday, January 10-Saturday, January 11**

“You got everything?” Tony asks on speakerphone, Peter sliding _The Fault in Our Stars_ into his backpack. He’s spending the weekend at May’s, just the two of them, was supposed to be on the subway an hour ago, but decathlon ran late after school again.

“I think so?”

“You _think so_ isn’t going to cut it when you’re in Queens and I have to drive over a box of nebules, kiddo. Do you have the list I sent you?”

Peter glances over to his printer, sees that Tony’s wirelessly printing a list of his meds and a schedule.

“Yeah,” he replies, grabbing the paper from the printer tray and studying it. _Daily, steroid, and rescue inhalers and spacers, _check. _Both types of nebules,_ check. _Extra neb cups and tubing_, check. _Singulair and steroid pills_, check. _Nebulizer_? Peter grabs the machine from his desk and tucks it away in his duffel bag. _Oxygen_? He glares at the tank from across the room and groans; he _really_ doesn’t want to have to drag it on the train, not when he’ll probably have to take the stairs because the elevator is always out of order.

“I already sent oxygen and a cannula over to May’s, since it’s so clunky. It’s just in case, so don’t get cranky on me. And May has a copy of the list, too. Call me if you need anything,” Tony insists, adding, “And I mean _anything_.”

“I’m not gonna need anything,” he wines. 

“Kid.”

“May’s a nurse. She’s good at this stuff. And before I lived here, she and I were handling all of this just fine. Relax. It’s two nights.”

Tony holds his tongue, don’t want to bring up the time he had to break the door to their apartment down to get to Peter while May was away, doesn’t want to argue that this is _completely different_ from what May was handling months ago. He doesn’t want to admit that this is hard for him, that even though he trusts May fully and completely, more so than Pepper, even, knowing he’ll be spending the weekend away from the Tower isn’t helping Tony’s anxiety.

“You packed enough socks? A sweatshirt?”

Tony knows that May keeps the heat low to save on the electric bill, that Peter’s room can feel like the Arctic when the temperature dips.

“Yes, Dad,” Peter jokes, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t correct himself, digs through his shirt drawer and grabs three clean t-shirts.

Tony’s grinning like an idiot at Peter calling him _dad_, has Happy glaring at him like he’s crazy. He throws a hand up as if to say _what?_

“It’s gonna be fine, Tony. You and Pepper should have a date night or something.”

“Are you telling me what to do with my free time?” Tony laughs.

“Yeah, well, now that you don’t have to worry about me all weekend, you should do something fun.”

“Still gonna worry like crazy, Underoos.”

“I know. Felt nice saying it, though.”

“Wear your watch, take your meds, and slow down if you need to, okay?”

“We’re not running a marathon,” Peter quips.

“You know what I mean.”

“Since when do I not slow down?”

“You want examples?”

“I’ll be _fine_, Tony. See you Sunday night. Love you.”

x

“May,” he says, dropping his duffel and wrapping his arms around her when he comes through the doorway, tears falling instantly.

“You okay, baby?”

“I just missed you a lot,” he admits, sniffling. “These are happy tears. Promise. It’s so good to see you.”

She tucks him in close, kisses his hair. “I missed you too. _So _much.”

“And I-I miss Ben,” he admits. “I’ve been missing him like crazy and Tony listens to me when I wanna talk about it, but it’s different because he never met him, you know?” He sniffles and May hugs him tighter, rubs his back.

And he wants to tell her all about Tony’s heart and how he keeps throwing up, how it’s a lot like Ben’s migraines but worse, somehow, but he knows he can’t, knows he’s sworn to secrecy, that May will tell Pepper and Tony will find out and never trust him with anything important ever again, and-

May lets him go and studies his face. “Your thoughts look like they’re flying through your head a mile a minute,” she jokes softly, cupping his face and wiping the tears from under his eyes.

“I need this weekend,” he admits, biting his lip.

“Me too,” she says, smiling. “I ordered a pie from Rosa’s. Should be here soon. Why don’t you wash your face and hands so you can help me set the table?”

“Can we sit on the couch and watch a movie instead?”

May pauses, takes a good, long look at Peter in the doorway. The only word she can come up with to describe how he looks is _worn_. He’s pale, cheeks rosy from the cold, body still thin from the pneumonia. She thinks _he’s supposed to be getting better_ and stops herself, reminds herself to be thankful that he’s okay, that he’s slowly getting there, that he’s exhausting himself trying to do just that.

“Of course, baby,” she says, pulling him into a quick hug again so that she can kiss him on the head before pushing him toward the bathroom and grabbing his duffel bag.

x

They eat pizza and garlic knots, guzzle Dr. Pepper, and watch _My Cousin Vinny_ on the couch just like old times.

May does a mean Marisa Tomei impression, which cracks Peter up every time Miss Mona Lisa Vito comes on screen, Peter taking over the for the Joe Pesci parts.

When the movie ends, she gets a sleepy Peter set up with his treatment and hands him the remote. He clicks around, settles on _Bob’s Burgers_ because he knows May finds it wildly inappropriate but also hilarious.

“I’m sorry I made you worry,” Peter says softly before putting the mouthpiece between his lips.

“Worry when?”

“Since this happened.”

“I’ll always worry about you, baby,” she says, sitting down beside him. “Not something you need to be sorry about. Knowing you, being responsible for you, is one of the greatest gifts of my life.”

“It’s just…I know you didn’t exactly sign up for this?”

She squints in confusion even though she’s got her glasses on. “Sign up for what?”

Peter lifts his nebulizer mouthpiece up.

“Peter,” she says, sighing.

“O-or my powers?”

“You didn’t choose this, baby. No one chooses any of this.”

“And you didn’t sign up to have to take care of me forever,” he says, and that’s when May just about loses it.

She gives a heavy sigh, pulls her glasses off, and Peter wishes he hadn’t said it, that he’d kept his unfiltered words to himself, because he doesn’t want to hear the truth.

“Peter, I would go back and do everything I’ve done in a heartbeat. You are not a burden to me. Never have been, never could be. You are the most important person in my life not because I’m your guardian, but because I love you with everything that I have in me. Do you understand that?”

She’s got her hand on his shoulder, is watching as her baby crumbles into a mess of tears and spit, drops the mouthpiece and burrows his way against her shirt, lets May hold him there, rocking him, even though he’s wheezing, even though the treatment he’s supposed to be doing is supposed to be helping to calm it down and…

And Peter just wishes he could go back to being small again, like he wished when Ned was standing in front of him with a box of Legos, because _everything_ made sense then, was simple then, didn’t _hurt_ then.

“Tony told me about your appointment.” She rubs his back and kisses his head, and even though he’s almost too big for her arms now, he doesn’t move, feels like he fits just right. 

“I don’t really wanna see someone,” he whispers, refusing to show his face. “I don’t want to think about it any more than I already do.”

“Then you can talk about other things,” she says, brushing her fingers through his curls. “You don’t have to talk about your health if you’re not ready.”

“Like I did with Dr. Jacobs.”

May nods. “When it’s ready to come out, it’ll come out,” she assures him.

Peter sniffles, May’s shirt sticking to his face when he pulls away. “Your shirt,” he says, biting his lip and looking down.

“It’s just a shirt,” she says with a small laugh. She absently wipes a hand over the stain. “I have a hundred others, and I’d let you sob into those too if you needed to. You know I would.”

“I know,” Peter says with a laugh before coughing, and May brings the nebulizer back to his lips, helps him sit up.

“You sound congested again,” May comments, and she knows it’s because he’s been crying, but she also knows it’s his asthma.

“_Please_ don’t make me do the vest,” he says, voice gravelly from crying as he looks up at her with doe eyes. “_Please_. I hate it so much, and Tony makes me do it when I…sound like this.” He looks so defeated, so tired, and May knows that look, knows Peter is telling her he’s reached his emotional limit.

“He didn’t send it over, so you’re off the hook for now,” May says, and part of her is glad, because even though she knows it really helps Peter clear out the mucus that likes to stick around, she also knows that the coughing, and sometimes subsequent vomiting, is painful and exhausting. Tony’s told her as much, and she hates that she hasn’t been there to help him through any of it.

Peter sighs in relief when he remembers it’s still back at the Tower, takes a deep breath of what’s left of the medication.

“Finish and I’ll tuck you in to bed,” she says, Peter rolling his eyes at the sheer idea of it.

“May,” he whines. “I’m not five anymore.”

“Joking, baby,” she says, laughing as she gets up from the couch to clean up the coffee table. “You know I love you. More than-”

“-all the words in all the books in all the world. I know, May.” And there’s more emotion in it than she expects, also a hint of whining, because he is a teenager, after all.

x

May’s phone beeps on her nightstand, a notification that says _low oxygen alert from Peter_ with the number 92 appearing on the screen in the dark. It takes her a moment to process it, and by the time she’s rushed down the hall, Peter’s woken and started coughing. They’re dry but relentless, probably a product of the old heating system and the stale air in the apartment. She finds him sitting up in bed and hunched as he tries to catch his breath when she turns his lamp on.

“Hey, baby,” she coos, going for the oxygen and untangling the cannula. She tucks it under his nose and around his ears, eases him back against the pillows and sits on the edge of the bed. Peter closes his eyes, takes deep, relieving breaths as May rubs his shoulder. “Just like that. Shh. Thankfully not an attack, just low oxygen. You’re okay.”

“H-how low?”

“92.”

Peter groans. “Dunno why it got so hard…to breathe.”

“You’re probably used to the filtered, humidified air at Tony’s. You’re still a little congested. I’ll grab a humidifier when we go out tomorrow, okay?” She watches Peter pant, puts a hand to his forehead out of habit.

“FRIDAY alerts when I have…a fever.”

May nods, remembering, pulls her phone from the pocket of her hoodie and checks the app. There haven’t been any new notifications since the low oxygen alert, but she still feels half asleep, is still trying to figure out all of the technology and the app Tony’s coded to sync FRIDAY’s alerts to help them keep Peter safe.

“I’m okay, May,” he adds, closing his eyes to concentrate on breathing. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Gonna stay with you for a bit, see how you do after you fall back asleep.”

Peter gives a small laugh. “Tony does the same thing.”

May gets the alerts on her phone even when Peter’s at Tony’s, looks at the data synthesis daily, knows how many treatments, hours on oxygen, and mid-night wakeups there’s been. She knows that this disease isn’t fucking around, that the higher the eosinophil count, the more likely exacerbations are. That the pneumonia, which is thankfully mostly resolved thanks to Tony’s medical facility and Peter’s healing abilities, has made all of this that much more intricate and complicated to try and gain control of.

May would be lying if she said she hasn’t second-guessed her decision to travel for work, to leave Peter with Tony and Pepper, to question every medication and therapy Bruce has recommended. Not that she has a choice, really. She just wishes she had the savings to support herself and Peter, that her insurance was better and would provide the medication and devices Peter needs right now. She’d gone on and on about saving up for college during her conversations the last few months with Tony and Pepper because that was the easier excuse. Ben’s life insurance had been minimal, had left her reeling financially in the aftermath, and sometimes, she still feels like she’s making up for it, putting in extra hours for overtime and bonuses with the hope that she can gain more stability for her and Peter. It shouldn’t be so expensive to live in Queens, shouldn’t be so expensive to buy milk and gas and new clothes and shoes for Peter, but it _is_. As a single parent, it’s been paycheck-to-paycheck for a few years now, was starting to get like this even before Ben left, and she knows that this might not be ending any time soon.

Not until she’s put enough time into her new job to get her first bonus.

She’s been working her ass off so that Peter doesn’t have to know, _doesn’t suspect_, keeps sending bits here and there to Pepper when she can because it makes May feel a little less like she’s exploiting billionaires to make her life easier. Pepper humors her, is setting the money aside for Peter in a trust. Pepper understands, knows that Peter is May’s end goal, her end game, at the end of every day. It had taken May a while to be open to Pepper’s generosity, since she wasn’t sure if it was out of pity or manipulation, but now, May can’t understand how she could have _ever_ thought something like that about the Stark family, knows it was just a defense to keep her from accepting any help when Peter first started getting sick.

Looking over at Peter, she sees that he’s comfortable, content. The oxygen is helping, just as it should. His levels are normalizing on her app, the same one she’s sure Tony is watching diligently. She pulls the fleece Mets blanket from the edge of his bed over and covers him in it, brushes the hair from his face before turning the lamp off and tiptoeing into the hallway. 

It’s been the two of them long enough for May to know that Peter’s not as okay as he’s making himself out to be, that the emotional side of all of this is coming to a head. It’ll be different than it was when he first got sick, she knows. It was like this after Ben, and she’s been waiting, has wanted to see him with her own eyes so that she can see exactly how he’s doing.

The long look, hug, and tears in the doorway and on the couch have told her everything she’s needed to know.

He’s not okay, and that’s okay, May’s decided. If Tony’s role has been focused on Peter’s medical and basic needs, then hers is to focus on his emotional ones. She knows Tony’s been trying to support Peter emotionally, that starting school again has been less than smooth, has caused arguments and brought out a side of Peter that May knows Tony has rarely seen, but she knows her boy, knows that he just needs time.

Time, therapy, and maybe some medication.

And love. Lots and lots of love.

_What do we do, May?_ Peter had asked her at the hospital once the police and social workers were gone, after _Ben_ was gone.

_We take what comes, baby_, she’d announced, taking his hand even though he was nearly a teenager at that point, finally enveloping him into the tightest, safest hug she could manage despite her own pain. _And we do it together._

x

Peter stumbles into the kitchen a little after eight, hair disheveled and cheeks bright red. He’s wheezy, looks miserable, and May’s anticipated this, has been watching his oxygen slowly drop on the app since he’s woken and come off of the oxygen.

“Rough night?” she asks, handing him a glass of water.

Peter nods as he takes the glass, rubs his chest. “Air’s kinda dry.”

May can’t afford filtered, humidified air, has radiators that are probably harboring sixty years’ worth of crap. He drinks the small glass down and puts it on the counter, a slew of tight coughs erupting from his chest.

“You sound horrible,” she mentions. “Do a treatment and take a hot shower, see if it opens you up. If not, we’ll get you back on the oxygen, okay?”

“But we had plans today!” he whines.

She shrugs, trying to hide her concern. “We’ll have a lazy morning and see how you feel. Doesn’t mean our whole day is shot.”

“May,” he groans, the same way he did when he was small and didn’t want to do something.

“I know, baby,” she says, giving him another hug. He squeezes her back, doesn’t let go right away.

“It’s like this all of the time now,” he mumbles under his breath before he pulls away.

“But it won’t always be.”

“You don’t know that,” Peter says from down the hallway, and part of her is glad that she can’t see his face as she says it, because she’s afraid to lose it in front of him, is struggling to balance accepting this and working to make it better.

May wants to tell him he’s right, that she can’t make any promises, but she’s read the research on the Nucala injections, knows that Bruce wants him taking it every week instead of every four because of his increased metabolism and enhanced abilities. They know the specific interleukin causing this mess, and the science, albeit confusing and somewhat contradictory at times because of Peter’s spider DNA, is on their side. She has to put her trust in the science because she refuses to imagine life for Peter going on and on like this. She’s seen more than enough uncontrolled asthma in the ER to know what happens when you don’t treat it properly.

When Tony had called to update her on everything that had transpired between school and MedBay the night everything went to shit, he’d explained that Peter had owned up to skipping meds, had sent himself into another attack confessing it, and May, though worried sick and wanting to be there more than anything, hadn’t been surprised; she’d fought Peter on his inhalers and treatments on a daily basis when Peter was home with her, when it was just two puffs of his steroid inhaler in the morning and one or two treatments a day at the most, before they knew what they were actually dealing with. And while Peter not taking his meds wasn’t even the root cause of all of this, she knows her Peter. She knows how easily and how deeply he feels guilt, even when it’s not his fault, even when it’s something completely out of his control, even when it’s not his guilt to hold.

And yes, May knows that Peter losing his parents, and then her and Peter losing Ben in the manner that they did, along with everything that’s happened with the Avengers these last few years, has been more than enough trauma to last a lifetime, would be for anyone, let alone a kid, but _this_, this illness, she knows, is Peter’s battle.

It’s his alone, and that’s what makes it so isolating. Because even though May is heartbroken and worried sick despite the fact that Peter is walking talking breathing before her very eyes, she knows she can’t _feel_ what he feels.

She’d feel it for him a thousand times over if she could.

She can be there for him, and hold him, but it just doesn’t feel like _enough_.

And she also knows that this hasn’t been easy for Tony and Pepper, that even though Peter is a great kid, he’s still a _kid_, is moody (especially with the steroids) and stubborn as all hell. And while they haven’t exactly said any of this, May _knows_. She knows what it’s like to raise a teenager, one with superpowers and asthma and a heart big enough to wrap around the Earth to make it a better place if he could.

She takes a deep breath, makes scrambled eggs and toast for Peter to eat when he’s done to keep herself busy, fills the morning/noon/night pill organizer Pepper’s bought for him with his steroids and Singulair, and tries not to let her own guilt at not being there these last few weeks swallow her whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments, kudos, etc.! I wanted to include a little more with May and Peter, since she's his guardian, she's wonderful, and deserves to be recognized for how amazing she is!
> 
> And if anyone has any ideas for the type one fic, please let me know!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying something new out! I wanted to show how Tony and May are kind of co-parenting even though they aren't in a relationship.

**Chapter 17**

**Sunday, January 12**

Texting conversation between May and Tony.

**Text of the text message simulator images:**

Tony: I don’t know why I’m texting you this, but I just went to Peter’s room because it’s 2 am and I always check on him before I go to bed, and when he wasn’t there I panicked for a moment before realizing he’s with you and…I don’t know where I’m going with this.

May: Welcome to being a parent, Tony.

Tony: I’m not, though.

Tony: A parent, I mean.

May: We both know that’s not true.

Tony: He’s not mine, though.

May: He’s just as much mine as he is yours at this point. I know as well as anyone that family doesn’t always mean blood.

Tony: You don’t have to say that.

May: I’m saying it because it’s true. And it’s actually nice to co-parent again.

May: Shit. Now I’m sounding like a weirdo.

May: You know what I meant.

Tony: You’re being really nice about my 2 am texting frenzy. Thank you for humoring me.

May: He’s fine, by the way. Made him do extra treatments and got the wheezing to stop around noon.

Tony: I know. Thank you, May.

Tony: For always humoring my weird texts and forcing meds on spider boy. He’s been finnicky about extra treatments and it’s starting to give me gray hair.

May: That’s what hair dye is for. And I’m the one who should be thanking you a million times over for making sure Peter’s got everything he needs right now.

Tony: He’s a good kid.

May: He is. And you’re a good father figure.

Tony: I’m not.

May: Take the compliment, Stark.

Tony: Yes, Parker.

May: You know that I wish I could have been there for everything.

Tony: Never doubted that for even a second. You know that.

May: Still, I appreciate everything you and Pepper have done for us.

Tony: Hey, it’s what family is for, right? ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think of this new format? :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm, how did we get to chapter 18?!? So much more fluff and whump coming in the next few chapters! Just you wait!

**Chapter 18  
Thursday, January 16**

“Do we really have to go?” Peter groans as Tony’s car weaves through traffic on autopilot. He’s picked Peter up two periods before dismissal for a follow-up appointment. “I’m doing better, Tony. I don’t need Bruce and Dr. Cho to tell me that.”

Tony pulls out a small notebook and a pen from the driver’s side door.

“What’s this for?” Peter asks, taking it.

“You, my friend, are going to write down everything you want to discuss. Symptoms, questions, fears, etc.”

“I don’t have anything to write down?” Peter tries.

“That’s a lie and we both know it. May’s on board with this, too. Get writing, kiddo. You’re in charge this time. Bruce and Dr. Cho are going to talk to _you_, not me. I’m just there for support. Oh, and one last rule: No apologizing,” Tony says.

“What?!”

“You are _not_ allowed to apologize to Bruce or Dr. Cho for what happened last time or whatever happens today.”

“Tony.”

“Whatever happens today is okay. You know that, right?”

Peter sighs. “Yes.”

“Are you just saying that to make me happy?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so.”

“Can’t you just bring me back to school and we can just reschedule?”

“Not happening, kiddo.”

Peter groans and leans his head against the window, watching the cityscape to try and quell his brewing anxiety. He grips the notebook and pen in his hands, thinks of what he could possibly write down.

At first, there’s nothing.

And suddenly, there’s everything.

x

“Sorry that Dr. Cho couldn’t be here,” Bruce says as he puts the buds of his stethoscope in his ears. “She has the flu and wanted to avoid getting you sick.”

Peter doesn’t want to say it out loud from his place on the hospital bed, but he’s happy that Dr. Cho isn’t here; she makes him nervous, talks circles around him and makes him feel dumb. Bruce, though, is comforting. Gentle. He’s got a good bedside manner, makes Peter feel a little bit better about being in MedBay. He listens to Peter’s lungs, has him breathe normally and deeply. Then there’s the usual temperature taking, blood pressure cuff, and clip on his finger to read his oxygen levels. “97. Not bad, considering. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Peter says, and Tony gives the subtlest nod from his chair in the corner as a means of prodding him to continue. “Except I get really out of breath when I climb stairs? And when I’m out in the cold for too long? O-or when I go from cold to warm, or warm to cold?”

Bruce is sitting at the computer station, typing things into Peter’s chart. “Are you taking your Ventolin when that happens?”

“Um,” he starts, not wanting to continue, but Tony nods again, and so he takes a breath before answering to calm his nerves. “Y-yeah, but, the Ventolin makes me feel kind of weird after? It always has but now I’m taking it more often and it’s frustrating. Trying to take a test or do homework while you’re shaky and your heart is racing is really hard.”

“There’s an alternative that doesn’t have the rapid heartbeat and shaking as a side effect,” Bruce says. “We can have you take something called Xopenex instead. I’ll have to order the inhalers and nebules, but I can have them in by tomorrow morning. I’ll get you a new spacer, too. I’ll also write you an elevator pass for when you need it. Not a problem.”

Peter’s shocked. “Wait, really?”

“Should’ve said something sooner,” Bruce says, fixing his glasses. “We could’ve fixed this problem a while ago.”

“I didn’t know there were other options? I-I’m still new to this? A year ago, I was still hoping this would…go away. But it’s…obvious that it’s not.” He tries not to sound as dejected as he feels, wrings his hands in his lap as he looks down.

“No, but we’re getting this under control. You sound much better than you did on the 20th.”

“I feel better than I did, but I still feel like I’m not back to normal.” He rubs at his chest. “I’ll feel okay-ish for a few days and then I just don’t.”

“Remember when I said we had to be patient?” Bruce asks. “You’ll see a much bigger improvement when you start the Nucala.” Peter stiffens at the mention of the injections, but Bruce doesn’t notice because he’s facing the computer again. “How often are you using your nebulizer?”

“Usually four times a day, but sometimes May and Tony make me do extra treatments. If I’m really wheezy, they have me use the Atrovent. Did it a lot last week, with it being so cold. Cold is a big trigger for me, I guess.”

“Does the Atrovent help?”

Peter nods. “A lot, actually.”

“You using your spacer when you take your inhalers?”

“Most of the time? Usually just for my morning and night meds, to be honest. Not so much at school.” Peter looks over at Tony for approval, and Tony works to keep a blank face, to not react because Peter _needs_ this, needs to take the reins and find some control in this on his own.

Bruce shrugs. “I’ll take it. Better than never. Still using the oxygen at night?”

“Only when I need it.”

“And the vest?”

“Here and there. Only when I have a lot of mucus, really.”

They go over his steroid inhalers and Singulair pills, Peter managing to get Bruce to taper his steroid dose down, which he’s excited about, because not sleeping well is starting to get old, and he’d like to get back to being Spiderman sooner than later if possible.

“Anything else on your list?” Bruce finally asks.

“So, I’m not really sleeping well and…” Peter trails, stopping to take a breath. Bruce doesn’t interrupt, and Peter bites his bottom lip. “I know the steroids are probably to blame but my anxiety’s also been really bad?”

Bruce nods, thinking back to the events of his last appointment.

“I used to have a prescription for Ativan. It was a small dose. Just to take as needed. May would keep it in her room. I only needed it a couple of times, but it really helped. I…I haven’t needed it in a few years. But then during my last appointment, I kind of…lost it.” Peter starts to get teary. He sniffles. “This has been really hard, is all.” His voice cracks and the tears fall. “It’s been a lot to take in and handle.”

Bruce stands up and hands him a box of tissues. “Of course it’s been, Pete. This would be a lot for anyone. I’m really proud of you for advocating for yourself today. I know that it’s not easy.”

Peter nods and wipes his eyes with a tissue.

“Who did you see after Ben passed?” he asks gently. 

“Dr. Jacobs? He was really good.”

“What do you think about seeing him again?”

“Is this because of the nightmares?” he asks, turning toward Tony.

“I haven’t shared anything with Bruce,” Tony reassures Peter.

“You’re having nightmares, too?” Bruce asks. “How often?”

He shrugs. “Just once or twice since I got sick.”

“Have you had any panic attacks?”

Peter nods, his face crumpling. He sniffles and tries to hold back, but he ends up covering his face and crying softly. “Was hoping I wouldn’t start crying. I’m…” he starts, but stops when he remembers Tony’s rule about apologizing, grabs another tissue instead.

“Is there something specific bringing them on?”

“_No_, they _just happen_,” he says, sniffling as he pulls his hands from his face. “At home, at school. O-on the subway.”

This is news to Tony, but he’s figured as much. He knows there’s no way that Peter’s nightmares haven’t come with the added bonus of anxiety attacks.

“Acute and chronic illness can cause anxiety and depression, and the meds you’re on can make that worse. Might be the Ventolin and steroids sending your anxiety into overdrive. Let’s see if the Xopenex and the lower dosage of the steroids help reduce the frequency of them. But you’ve also been through a lot, kid. Anyone in your shoes would be dealing with some emotions.”

“I’m scared of dying,” he cries, and it feels so good to say it out loud. “I’m afraid to have a really bad a-attack and need the epi-pens again. I’m…afraid they won’t work, o-or that I’ll be at school, or in a battle, and I don’t want to die. I don’t want…to _leave everyone_.”

“Gonna do our best to make sure that doesn’t happen, Pete,” Tony reassures him with a hand on his shoulder. Peter nods, takes another tissue and blows his nose. “We’ve got you on the right meds now and I finished the Boomerang Protocol so that we get alerts when you’re in the yellow, orange, and red zones for oxygen levels and heart rate. I’m working on an algorithm to detect the slightest hint of wheezing or anaphylaxis so that we cover our bases.” He squeezes his shoulder. “We’ll get there, kiddo, just gonna take some time.” Peter nods and sniffles again. He knows they can’t promise anything, that they’re already putting so much time and effort into keeping him healthy, and he appreciates it, _he truly doe_s. He just wishes they were dealing in absolutes, something concrete to cling to. “I have a guy, too,” Tony adds, and Peter looks over, confused. _Tony’s seen a therapist?_ “SHIELD-approved and everything. So if you don’t want to see Dr. Jacobs again, we have other options.”

“Do I have to?” He hates how small he sounds when he asks.

Bruce and Tony share a look before Tony speaks. “No, Underoos. You don’t. But I think it’s a good idea. Why don’t we sleep on it? Give the idea a few days?”

“Deal.”

“I’ll write you a prescription so that you have some Ativan on hand. Cho said she wants blood drawn, PFTs, and allergy testing. While you definitely have e-asthma, we’re pretty sure you also have allergic asthma, based on your testing from the spring.”

“You can have more than one kind?!”

“Afraid so. If you think it’s too much with the PFTs today, we can do the skin testing next time.”

Peter looks to Tony. “Up to you, kiddo.”

“What if I have a reaction?” Peter asks Bruce.

“It’s rare but possible. I’m only doing environmental allergens today, like grasses and weeds. If you do, you’re in the best possible place to have it. We can have you lay you down for the blood draw and skin testing, since you had a vasovagal reaction last appointment.”

Peter feels like the appointment has gone well so far, and while he doesn’t want to tempt fate, he also wants to know what he’s allergic to. It seems like one more thing that could give him some control back, so he says yes. The PFTs are mostly uneventful, which he’s thankful for. He has a coughing fit again and turns completely red, but he doesn’t throw up. When it’s time for blood work, Peter lays down on the table and closes his eyes. Bruce is quick, and by the time he opens his eyes, there’s already a band-aid covering the crook of his elbow. He has to take his shirt off and lay on his belly for the skin testing, which he isn’t too excited about, especially not when Bruce cleans his back with alcohol swabs and marks what feels like his entire back with a pen. 

“This is going to sting a bit.” He doesn’t have time to ask what, exactly, is going to before he feels the first pinch and burn.

“Ow!” he yells as he grabs for Tony’s hand. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

“You okay, Pete?” Bruce is asking as he pauses.

“Y-yeah,” he musters, squeezing Tony’s hand and taking a few breaths. “Hurts more than the scratch test.”

“This test is a bit different. I have to put the allergen beneath your skin. Let me know if you need me to stop. You might get itchy. That’s normal. Just don’t scratch, okay? I’ll dose you up with Benadryl before you leave if it’s unbearable. Only have a few more to go.”

“Doing great, kiddo,” Tony coaches, giving Peter’s hand a squeeze.

“Hate this,” he groans, burying his head into the pillow.

Tony rubs Peter’s arm with his free hand. “Deep breaths. Almost done.”

Peter feels another pinch and tenses, but he follows it with a deep breath and lets the air out slowly. He practices counting down from ten, just like Dr. Jacobs had taught him. By the time he gets through the third round, Bruce is pulling his gloves off.

“All done. We’ll give it about fifteen minutes, see if you form any hives. Don’t scratch, no matter how itchy.” Bruce cleans everything up before heading toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few. Gonna grab that Benadryl.”

“Did great today, kiddo. Proud of you.”

“Today was hard. And I have a feeling he’s getting my injections. I’m…kind of done with needles today. How many did he use?”

“Including the blood draw, maybe fifteen?” Tony guesses.

Peter grimaces. “That hurt. A lot.”

“Your back looks like a fiery maze of hives. Didn’t think you’d react that quickly. You feeling tight at all?”

“No,” Peter says. “Just itchy.”

“Don’t lie to me, kiddo.”

“Not lying. Besides, you can her me wheezing from a mile away. Actually feeling pretty good today, even with PFTs. Don’t jinx me, Tony.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They sit, Peter scrolling through his Instagram and Tony answering a few work emails.

“Okay, my back is officially on fire,” Peter admits, putting his phone down. “How bad is it?”

“You want the truth, or-”

“The truth,” he says through gritted teeth.

Tony looks at him with apologetic eyes. “I can’t tell what’s hives and what isn’t, kiddo. You’re sure you don’t feel tight?”

“Nope. Feel fine. Except for my back. How much longer?”

“Your immune system really went off the deep end,” Tony adds. “This is…impressive.”

“Not funny, Tony.”

The door opens a moment later, Bruce appearing with a stack of boxes, a red container, a box of alcohol swabs, and a bottle of Benadryl in his hands. Peter feels his stomach knot with dread at the appearance of the Nucala, can feel his heart starting to beat faster as his palms grow sweaty.

He promised himself he wouldn’t have a panic attack over the Nucala injections, but now that they’re here, in front of him, he wants to run again. Hide. But he can’t, because his back is on fire and he can feel that the skin is raised and raw. It would hurt too much to move. 

He’s _stuck_.

So he closes his eyes and breathes, slow and deep.

Bruce whistles, and Peter can feel him hovering over his back. “Suffice it to say that you’re pretty allergic, Peter. Wow. I’ve never seen this before.”

Peter groans. Of course he’s rare. Again.

Bruce gives him a steroid shot to calm down the giant hive that’s formed, in his butt, of course, before handing him a medicine cup full of pink Benadryl. He sits with his shirt still off on the bed and drinks it down, tries not to focus on the _16 needles_ he’s had to endure today.

Mostly because there’s twelve more sitting on the counter beside Bruce’s computer, four to a box.

He closes his eyes again, takes those slow and deep breaths, but his stomach is knotting and that familiar feeling of _too much too much too much _is starting to takeover.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see that it’s Tony.

Peter’s watched videos of people doing their own Nucala injections, learned that you have to take it out of the refrigerator long enough to warm up so that it hurts less. He’s read about the site reactions, knows he’ll probably get a red, round bump the size of a quarter every time for the first few injections, knows he might get a headache or stomachache the next day. It’s an autoinjector, so you don’t see the needle. But you feel it. Boy, do you feel it, post after post said. Most of the posts he read said that the side effects diminish over time, that once you get used to it and the pain, it becomes a part of your life.

And maybe that’s what Peter’s most afraid of: That all of this is becoming a part of his life and that he’s somehow supposed to be _okay_ with it.

“Tony?” he asks, feeling a little shaky. The panic is setting in, his breaths coming in short spurts, and it’s not his asthma this time, not really his lungs at all.

“Shh, it’s okay, kiddo,” Tony assures him as he comes to sit on the bed. “We don’t have to do this right now.”

“Today was a lot,” he says, rubbing his legs in an effort to calm down as he tries not to cry. “I-it was a lot and…I-I think I’ve…reached my limit.”

“It was. I know. We’ll wait, okay? You did really well today. So proud of you.” And when Peter looks up, he can see that Tony is tearing up. He wipes them away, sniffles quickly before helping Peter put his shirt back on, careful not to agitate his back.

“Feel good, kid,” Bruce says as he squeezes his shoulder and gives a smile. “I’ll let you guys know when I get the lab work back.”

And even though he’s still panicking slightly and feels the Benadryl hitting his system, Peter thanks him. They leave, three boxes of cold Nucala in Peter’s hands while Tony holds the red plastic sharps container and box of alcohol swabs.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Peter says once they’re in the elevator. “Tomorrow night,” he adds.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“I’ll make sure I’m home, okay?”

“Don’t have to.”

“Peter.”

His voice cracks as he says, “Don’t want to do this alone.”

“You don’t have to do any of this alone, kiddo. That’s why I’ve been trying so hard to be here every single step of the way. Hey, look at me,” Tony directs softly.

Peter sniffles and looks up.

“You were a rockstar today. You took the lead and did things that you were nervous about but knew you needed to do. And I know you got anxious toward the end, but you verbalized when you hit your limit and that is something most adults can’t do. Hell, I can barely do it most of the time. Today was a victory, kiddo. It was scary and overwhelming, but you owned it. I wasn’t lying when I said I was _so_ proud of you.”

“Do you think I should start seeing someone? About my anxiety? And nightmares?”

Tony sighs. “Yeah, Underoos. I think you should. But I won’t make you.”

Peter nods in understanding.

“Looks like that Benadryl is hitting pretty hard,” Tony comments, and Peter’s confused until he realizes that Tony’s holding the elevator door open and Peter’s still standing inside.

“Tired,” he says as he enters the residence, but it comes out jumbled.

“Couch or bed?” Tony’s asking as he leads Peter into the kitchen.

“Couch. Feeling…pretty lousy all of a sudden,” Peter comments as Tony takes the medication and puts it in the refrigerator. “Will you stay with me?” he asks once Tony’s got him set up with his oxygen and Natasha’s blanket. He knows it’s too much to ask, that Tony needs to get back to work. He isn’t sure if he has a meeting or work to finish in his lab, but he remembers Tony mentioning having to go back to work after the appointment, and now he feels stupid for even thinking that he could stay. He’s already given so much. “I’m…I’m sorry, I’m just scared. With my back all hivey? I-I don’t want to have an attack and wake up alone.”

He can tell that Tony is thinking, calculating something in his head. “Yeah, of course, kiddo.”

“It’s okay if you can’t,” he adds. “Happy can stay with me, maybe?”

Tony seems to be debating it for a moment before he shakes his head. “No, I can stay. Might have to run a meeting from the dining room via Skype for a little bit, but I’ll keep an ear and eye out, okay?” The Benadryl is taking full effect and Peter can barely keep his eyes open. “Rest, kiddo. I’ll be here, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading, leaving kudos, commenting, etc.
> 
> Big events are coming in the story. What do you think they might be?!
> 
> **Hint: **  
“Peter,” Tony’s cooing, pulling the blankets away as he tries to wake him and sit him upright. He can hear the struggle in the kid’s lungs, feels the warmth and dampness of his t-shirt. His hair is wet with sweat and is matted and wild against his forehead, oxygen off and buried beneath the blankets. “Pepper, get a wet washcloth. He’s burning up.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for sticking with me thus far! I appreciate the kudos and comments! :)

**Chapter 19  
Friday, January 17**

“You’ve gotta wait until you hear-”

“-2 clicks, I know.” Peter takes a breath before he pushes the pen down against his thigh and hears the first click, and at first he thinks everything is fine, that he can’t even feel the needle, but then he _does_, and there’s the sound of the liquid being injected and a searing pain in his thigh that just keeps _expanding_, and all that he can think to say is “Ow! Ow! This fucking _hurts!_” He hisses as it continues and looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes to brace for the last few seconds. “Fuck!” Finally, _finally_, he hears the second click, but he’s too scared to pull the pen away. He can feel Tony’s hand wrap around his and lift it away, looks down just in time to see blood pooling. Tony’s got a tissue on it in an instant and a band-aid waiting.

An Iron Man band aid.

Tony covers the injection site with the band-aid and begins to clean up the wrappers, and Peter’s suddenly wondering how he’s going to do this every single week, how he’s going to psych himself up to jab himself in the leg with this pen that feels more like a knife. He bites his lip and tries not to cry because he wants to seem brave, wants Tony to think that he’s having some kind of positive impression on him and how he’s dealing with all of this. He can’t move, can’t breathe, is afraid to blink.

“Peter?”

“I’m okay.”

“Can’t lie to me, kid. I see straight through it.”

“I know you want to say, “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” and I’m supposed to sit here and say it was fine b-but it’s _not_, and I just wish that this wasn’t happening.” Peter sniffles and wipes his nose with his sleeve, tears streaming down his cheeks and into his lap. “And it fuck-_sorry_-freaking hurt _so badly_. And you bought me these silly Iron Man band-aids and I can’t tell if it’s making everything better or worse.”

“You can say fuck, you know,” Tony offers. “I’m not Steve, who believes that all swearing earns you a one-way ticket to Hell.”

Peter lets out a small laugh. “In that case, that really _fucking_ hurt.”

Rubbing Peter’s back in small, soothing circles, Tony adds, “Not going to lie, it definitely seemed like it did. I’m sorry, Underoos. It’s okay to admit that this is hard.”

“You never admit when things are hard, though.” He sniffles, wipes his face again. “You just…work through them.”

“Well, if you call anti-social narcissistic behaviors coupled with insomnia and anxiety ‘working through difficult things,’ then I think you might not have the best role model, kid.”

Peter sniffles and looks up at Tony. “What are you talking about? You’re the best, Tony.”

“A lot of people might disagree with you on that. Actually, not might, _would._”

“But look at where you are now. You’ve got your new tower, the Avengers, Pepper.” Peter wants to add _and me_, but stops himself. He doesn’t feel like an asset right now. Not even close. Tony isn’t well, has the Stark Industries exec board breathing down his neck about their contracts with Grumman, and now with all of this autoimmune stuff, Peter’s not sure how much longer Tony can keep doing _this, _this ‘taking care of Peter’ thing. He knows Aunt May is trying, but it’s been hard with her new job. In truth, he’s grown kind of happy at the Tower with Pepper and Tony. He likes that Tony’s his emergency contact when May’s away, that he’s the one who showed up after he blacked out in front of his entire chem class and stuck with him when he wasn’t exactly easy to deal with, that he’s becoming the father figure he’s didn’t even know he was longing for after Ben died.

It makes him feel like someone’s chosen to be by his side.

But it also makes him feel like he’s stealing Tony from more important things.

“You know, I was waiting on this, because of everything that’s been going on. I didn’t think it would be fair to just throw it on you,” Tony says, his face scrunching as he tries not to cry. Peter knows what’s coming, that Tony is going to tell him that their trip is cancelled, that he has to go back to May’s, that this health stuff with the breathing treatments and the nightmares and now the injections have become too much. As much as Peter wishes, he isn’t _theirs_. He’s not Tony and Pepper’s responsibility. He _gets_ it, but that doesn’t stop him from starting to cry harder, from not being able to hold back every apology he’s wanted to shout out into the world since he realized his chest was feeling funny a few weeks ago.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, looking down at his lap. “I-If I had known that I was going to be this sick, I would have taken my inhalers sooner, would have left the Tower sooner and made sure that I didn’t keep interrupting you and Pepper with my attacks, and I’m _sorry_, I know you didn’t ask for this, and it’s not fair to either of you, and I-I-”

Tony’s got a hand on his shoulder as he asks, “Peter, what in the world are you talking about?”

“I know you want me to leave!” he yells, pulling away from Tony. “I get it, I do! I know this is a lot! I know I’m not your kid even though you call me ‘kid’ and do so much for me. You don’t even have to say it, I can just…go.” He lifts himself from the couch, his leg burning as he strains the muscle where he’s done his injection, his hand covering it as he pauses and winces. 

“Pete, I’m not asking you to leave. Do you honestly…you _honestly think I would ask you to leave_?” Tony asks, helping him down onto the couch and lifting his chin. “I’m asking you if it’s okay that I become one of your legal guardians. I’ve been discussing it with May for a while now and she said that it was up to you.”

His eyes go wide. “You’re a-adopting me?!”

“No,” Tony laughs softly, smiling at Peter. “Not exactly. May wants to make sure you have somewhere to stay and be supported, and she can’t always make legal decisions from afar. She said it’s okay if you stay here with Pepper and me for as long as you need to.”

“But…May’s…she’s all-”

Tony puts a hand up. “May is welcome here any time. I made it abundantly clear that we I am in no way trying to replace her. Pepper and I just want to help right now, and she agreed that the shared guardianship would be best, as long as you agreed.”

“Are you serious?” Peter’s face lights up as he tries to hold back happy tears. “_Please_ tell me you’re serious, because if this is some kind of joke, it’s a cruel one, and I really don’t have the emotional energy to handle much more at the moment.”

“Sir, you have a high heart rate alert from Peter,” FRIDAY tattles.  
_  
_“Fucking Karen and FRIDAY,” Peter jokes, wiping his tears with his sleeve. 

“As serious as I could ever be,” Tony assures him. “You _seriously_ thought Pepper and I would kick you out of our home?” He’s somewhat heartbroken at the thought, would never want Peter to feel that way.

“I don’t…I don’t know, Tony.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair as he thinks, and it reminds Tony of himself. “I’m not exactly an easy kid. I…my immune system and lungs don’t work right, and I get cranky because of the meds, and…things have just been really confusing lately a-and-”

“Well, that’s for damn sure,” Tony says, laughing.

“Hey!”

“I was only joking, Underoos,” Tony says, patting him on the shoulder. “You can’t help being sick. And you’re pretty easy most of the time, except when it comes to doing extra treatments and slowing down when you know you need to.”

“Slowing down means I have to think,” he admits. “And I didn’t like doing extra treatments because of how they made me feel.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the side effects?”

He shrugs. “Because I didn’t know there was another option and I just wanted to be less trouble?”

“Speaking up about side effects doesn’t make you trouble, Peter. It makes you a responsible patient.”

“I know, I just didn’t want to sound like I was complaining.” He lets out a long exhale. “I know these meds and treatments are expensive. I know you and Pepper and May are tired because you’re all working so hard to make sure I’m eating right and taking all of my meds and _breathing_, and it just feels like I’m…not allowed to comment on any of it because everyone else has been so…_selfless_… I guess I just feel selfish for wanting it to be any different.” He shrugs, sniffling. “I feel selfish for not being better yet, for maybe never getting better.”

“You know, it’s okay that you’re not better yet,” Tony says quietly, pulling Peter against his chest when he sees the kid’s lip start to tremble. The kid breaks down instantly, leans right into Tony as he cries. “And, it’s okay if this is the status quo from now on, kiddo. We’d still do the same things for you no matter what. We all love you very, very much.”

“I know,” Peter mumbles against Tony’s shirt. “That’s what May said, too. And it almost makes it worse, though. _Knowing_. It’s pressure. It’s…you’re taking me on as a guardian and I’m a lot of extra work and you don’t have to do this, it’s okay not to, I won’t be mad, it’s r-really nice of you-”

“Peter,” he says softly, pulling the kid away from his place burrowed against his shirt so that he can see his face. He swipes his thumbs under the kid’s eyes to clear the tears. “Hey. I would do this even if you weren’t sick. This has nothing to do with you being sick.”

“Y-You’re just saying that, because I _am_ sick, and you don’t want me to f-feel bad a-and…”

“Peter.”

“You didn’t sign up for this!” Peter cries, and there’s anger behind it that Tony was not expecting. “Y-you didn’t sign up for any of this when you picked me up form school that day, and May didn’t sign up for this when my parents died, and Pepper _sure as hell_ didn’t sign up for this when she married you, and I’m just…this isn’t _fair_ to anyone else. It’s fine if it’s my problem but it’s n-not fine if…if everyone else…has to be stuck with it too!”

“Stuck?! Peter,” he says, exasperated and lost for words, tears brimming. “No one is _stuck_ with you! We…we love you, kiddo. I speak for all of us, even Happy and your team, when I say that we would be absolutely _devastated_ if anything were to ever happen to you.”

“You’ve given me this speech before!” he yells as the tears stream down his face and he pulls his hands into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “So has Steve!”

“Because you’re stubborn and you don’t ever listen to a word that anyone ever says!” Tony yells back, slapping his hands down on his lap and shaking his head. He takes a breath and softens his voice when he says, “I’m asking you if I can be one of your legal guardians because I’ve never had any kids of my own, and you’re the closest thing that I have to son, just like when you said I was the closest thing that you had to a father, and if you don’t want to, I understand, Underoos. I do. I’m not gonna make you do something you don’t want to, not something like this. But my offer stands because of everything I said. Sick or not, it would be an honor to be one of your guardians. An absolute fucking honor, Peter. Contrary to popular belief, Tony Stark does have a heart. A broken one that likes to beat at its own rhythm, but I have one, and I’m trying to use it and if you would just give me the chance-”

His words are broken off by Peter wrapping his arms around Tony’s neck, squeezing tightly as hot tears trail down his face. Tony feels his own hot tears sliding down his cheeks as he hugs the kid back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are just about to reach the climax in a chapter or two, so hold on to your butts! What do you predict will happen?
> 
> **Hint:**  
“You okay, Pete?” Tony asks, panicked, through the phone. “FRIDAY has you in the orange zone for heart rate and oxygen level. Please tell me you’re sitting down. Did you take your inhaler?”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much amazing help on this chapter, so shoutouts to LyraLollygagger, imagingtocrash, and savvysass!! You are all wonderful and made so many meaningful revision suggestions! Thank you! <3

**Chapter 20  
Wednesday, January 22**

“You wanna try with or without the oxygen?” Tony asks as he and Peter enter the gym on the 48th floor of the Tower. He sets the oxygen tank and his gym bag down in the corner, gestures toward a small row of treadmills.

“Without,” Peter decides, dropping his backpack to the floor.

“You did your treatment after school?”

“I’m not going to die from walking on a treadmill, Tony,” Peter jokes, but he feels bad about it almost immediately, is just apprehensive, can’t help but worry that their plan to get Peter conditioned is going to explode in their faces. They’ve both been so busy, Peter overwhelmed with midterms and Tony booked solid with meetings. “Sorry. I’m…I’m nervous and I’m stressed right now? I’m trying not to think about everything, but I’m _thinking about everything_.”

“No catastrophizing. Today is a trial run. We do the best that we can and we stop when we need to stop, okay?”

“I don’t know when I should stop and when I should keep going, though.”

“We’ll figure that out together, I guess, because I don’t really know either.”

Peter places his feet onto the sides of his treadmill and attaches the safety clip as Tony sets the machine to a speed a step above walking.

“Don’t push it, kiddo. Take it slow,” Tony warns as Peter walks to match the pace of the machine.

“Not like I have much of a choice,” he quips.

“Your oxygen level is 98, so I think we’re good. Let me know if you think you need the oxygen, though.”

“Not gonna need it.”

“You being stubborn or honest?” Tony asks as he hops onto his own treadmill and starts the machine.

“Both?”

“Sounds about right.”

Tony has FRIDAY play some classic rock, quizzes Peter a bit like he did in the car to get the kid’s mind off of everything. They’re about fifteen minutes in, with Tony at a brisk walk that’s borderline jogging, when Tony notices that Peter’s starting to struggle. He’s gripping the sides of the treadmill like his life depends on it, is clumsily placing one foot in front of the other to keep going.

“How you doing, kiddo?”

“Aren’t _you_ tired?” Peter asks, slightly wheezy.

“Yes,” Tony answers honestly, panting, but he knows he can go another ten minutes, just walking, of course, if he wants to.

“So, then, we don’t have to…keep doing this, right?”

“We’re doing this because we have to, not because we want to.”

“I can’t tell if I should…stop,” he admits. It’s harder to pull air in, but it’s not _awful_, feels just like it does when he climbs the stairs at school because the elevator is slow.

Tony leans over to glance at Peter’s watch. “You’re 95. Up to you, kiddo. You can try with the oxygen or you can stop.”

“Or I can just…keep going.”

“Yeah, no, plowing through isn’t going to help anyone. Use the data you have to make an informed choice.”

“Easier to just keep…going,” Peter pants.

“Yeah, and we saw where that got you before.” Tony presses the STOP button on his machine and then Peter’s, waits for both treadmills to stop before helping Peter off and to sit on a nearby bench. He lets Peter adjust the oxygen beneath his nose, hands him his inhaler and spacer from his backpack, and watches as he takes the medication and tries to calm his breathing down. “You’ll get better at this, at knowing your body,” Tony reminds him. 

“I don’t think this is…gonna work.”

“It’ll work, Pete.”

“It’s okay if it doesn’t, though, right?” And he’s sniffling, trying not to get upset, because it feels like his lungs are deflating and he only did fifteen minutes of _walking_, not even jogging, and he wants to get back to patrolling, wants so badly to get back to _before_ all of a sudden, but it feels so far away, so _fleeting_. 

“Yes, it’s okay if it doesn’t, but this is why we have to show up and work on this every day. You don't have to want the walking, but you have to want Disney and Spiderman.”

“I’m trying to be okay with this but it’s really…it’s really scary, Tony. I should be able to _walk_. I just…want someone to promise me that some of this will be worth it…that I’ll be fine at Disney…that I can do the Spiderman gig again.” He shakes his head and tries not to cry, but he can feel them coming, can’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks.

“I can’t promise that you'll get to Spiderman again. I want to promise you that, but you know that I can't. I'm optimistic, kiddo but..."

He wipes his nose, tries not to get angry. “I get it,” he grits his teeth and whispers, looking down.

Tony puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “It’s going to take time, and that’s okay. That was one of the first things I think I said to you after you got sick. You’re exactly where you need to be right now, as crazy as that sounds,” Tony tries.

The words flip a switch inside of Peter.

He shirks away from Tony and chucks his inhaler clear across the room. “Could you just stop with the platitudes already?” Peter yells. “I want it to stop! Why can’t it just…_stop_?” Peter lets out the most pitiful sob, and Tony just lets him, doesn’t comfort him or say anything right away, just lets him cry everything out for a good five minutes or so with ragged, wheezy breathing.

When he finally starts taking smaller gulps of air, begins to calm down and dry his face with his shirt, Tony gives a small, sad sigh.

“You can be angry, Peter, but you can’t take it out on the people around you. And you can’t take it out on yourself. I know because I’ve been there. Not getting off of the treadmill when you were clearly not okay? And throwing your medication? There are other ways to channel your anger.”

“I don’t know why…I keep crying!” He’s wiping his eyes, trying to get it to stop, can’t tell if he’s angry or exhausted or furious or what.

“Kiddo, it’s okay, you know. To cry. Doesn’t matter if it’s every day. You’ve gotta get that frustration out. When you’re ready to start jogging and running, it’ll be a good outlet for that. But for now, we’ve gotta find something else. You were reading that book, right? On the couch last night? Does reading help.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anything helps.”

_Maybe the Ativan_, Peter thinks, but he doesn’t say it, because he doesn’t like the idea of needing medication outside of nightmares and severe panic attacks.

He likes to think he can do this without medication.

Even if he knows he can’t.

“Just feels like I’m starting to deserve this? Like…if I’m not getting better, and I’m just becoming angrier…maybe…maybe…” His breaths quicken, and he feels like he might throw up at the thought, has to hold on to the bench to keep himself from getting too dizzy.

“Kiddo,” Tony says, shaking his head. “No. You are not going there, not even for a second. You are getting better, but it’s happening slowly because you’re still sick. You’ve only had one dose of the Nucala. Remember when you could barely walk? When you needed oxygen 24/7? The BiPap? We haven’t used that in weeks, thank God. You need less and less medication every week. We’re getting there. I’m gonna get you there, kiddo, but I need you to work on mentally getting there, because we can’t get there without that, too. And that starts with not being destructive toward yourself and others.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Tony chugging water as Peter sniffles and pants and feels guilty about throwing what he knows has to be an expensive medication; May’s eyes had gone wide when he’d mentioned the change to her, and she had commented that one inhaler alone could be upwards of $350.

He feels a small nudge in his side. “You look beat, kid. What midterm do you have tomorrow?”

“Math.”

“You need a study partner?”

“Think I’m just gonna go to bed,” Peter says quietly. He prepares himself for the task of standing up, likes that Tony doesn’t swoop in to help him or insist on dragging the oxygen back up to his room for him. He trudges across the room to grab his inhaler, the oxygen in tow, and trudges back. Peter wants to say _I’m sorry_ and _thank you_, but he can’t get himself to say it, can only focus on putting one foot in front of the other again until he’s in the elevator, and then back at the residence. Soon, he’s curled into a ball on his bed with his oxygen on and phone against his chest, MJ’s tattered copy of _The Fault in Our Stars_ open and propped against a pillow.

His phone buzzes. It’s MJ.

_You’ve been quiet today. Everything okay?_

_Just tired. Reading_.

_What part are you up to?  
_  
_They’re at the Anne Frank house.  
_  
_Oh.  
_  
_Oh? Please tell me Hazel doesn’t die on this trip. I need her to live._

🤐  
_  
_Peter grumbles and reads on, is nearly half-asleep when he comes across the plot twist of all plot twists. It nearly knocks all of the air from his lungs, and he’s suddenly thankful he’s got his oxygen on. 

_WHY DID YOU GIVE ME THIS BOOK?!_

_Ah, so you got to _THAT_ part.  
_  
_Fuck,_ he responds. _This is heartbreaking._

_I’m sorry, I thought you’d like it. I wasn’t thinking about how it might affect you. You don’t have to keep reading. I can give you a summary of the end if you’d prefer._

__She texts again when he doesn’t respond. _I’m really sorry, Peter._  
  
Peter ignores the rest of her texts, can barely see through the tears in his eyes, keeps reading because he has to _know_.

Even though he _knows_ how this is all going to end, even though he knows it’s almost midnight and he should be getting to sleep, he keeps reading.

“I thought being an adult meant knowing what you believe,” Hazel’s dad admits in the book, “but that has not been my experience.”

And maybe, Peter thinks as he closes the book, tears drying and ending still unknown because he can’t keep his eyes open any longer, _this_ is what Tony’s been trying to tell him all along.

That Tony wishes he had all of the answers, but that he doesn’t. That it’s okay to not have all of the answers.

That it’s okay to be living in the in-between of sick and healthy.

That it’s okay if he’s _just Peter_.

Maybe that’s part of why he’s been so _scared_. He’s so used to being Spiderman that he’s lost sight of Peter.

And maybe that’s part of what May’s been trying to instill in him: That Spiderman or not, Peter is still special to her, the _most_ special of everyone that exists, even with a brain that likes to race and wheezy lungs.

This last month has been full of Peter being _just Peter_, and he’s hated most of it except for his time with MJ. (And okay, May, Tony, Pepper, the list goes on.) He would rather not need oxygen some nights, doesn’t like waking up mid-nightmare/panic attack or doing treatments at school, but the people in his life, the ones who have stuck this out with him, like Hazel’s parents who remind her they love her in the least cliché ways possible at every turn, are the _one good thing_ he’s got in all of this, and ending of the book be damned, he decides, he has to start focusing on that rather than the anger living inside him.

He pulls his phone out and types out _Not mad at you. Just angry about a lot of things right now and this book is making me feel and, I don’t know, I guess I just wasn’t expecting everything to hit me like it did today. I like the book. I’m going to finish it, so don’t spoil it. Night. <3_

x

Friday, January 24 

Tony deflates as he enters the kitchen, sitting down at the island to take a moment for himself. 

“I thought Peter might want some dessert,” Pepper comments, pushing a plate with a small slice of chocolate cake and a fork across the counter toward Tony. She gives a small, sad smile, can only imagine how awful Peter’s injection was based on the litany of swear words she heard a moment ago from across the house.

“Came to grab some ice, but I think the cake might be the better option here,” Tony decides, rubbing his face.

Pepper goes for the freezer and pulls out an ice pack. “Couldn’t tell with the full-on sobbing,” she comments sarcastically, but there’s a softness to it.

“He’s got a pretty high pain tolerance, but watching him sit there and inject and get so upset... I can just tell how painful it is, you know? He broke down in the gym yesterday. Kid’s going through such a hard time all of a sudden and I can’t explain _why_.”

“It’s been more than a month, Tony. He’s frustrated. I wouldn’t expect him to be anything _but_ right now, honestly.”

Tony lets the thought ruminate for a moment. “His injection site started forming a raised, red lump so I snapped a picture of it and sent it to Bruce, who assured me that it’s normal. But nothing about this is normal, right? People shouldn’t have to do this kind of stuff? Am I even doing the right thing by making him do all of this?”

Pepper wraps the ice pack in a dish towel and places it beside the cake on the island. “Sometimes the things that are best for us are what cause us the most pain.”

“Wow, insightful,” Tony comments, pretending to be impressed as he looks up at Pepper with a smile. “So, I cause you pain, then?”

“Oh, all the time,” she jokes with a loving laugh, coming over to hug him from behind.

“Hm, and you _still_ love me?”

“The things that are best for us…” she trails, resting her chin on Tony’s head. He relishes in the touch for a moment, takes a deep, relieving breath as he closes his eyes. “You’re doing this with Peter because you love him,” Pepper reminds him.

“Think you can make that two slices of cake to go?” he asks, looking up at her.

“Anything else?” she asks with a laugh as she pulls away.

“A kiss,” Tony says, pulling her back in.

x

Tuesday, January 28

Tony and Peter are on day 6 of what Tony has coined Operation Disney. Peter’s managed twenty minutes of slow jogging, which is improvement from his fifteen minutes of walking that left him needing his oxygen nearly a week ago. The injections and his healing factor have kicked in more fully and completely, and Tony doesn’t want to jinx it, but he’s sure Bruce, Dr. Cho, and May are about ready to clear Peter for some light patrolling.

Okay, so maybe not _patrolling_ _patrolling_, but swinging, yes.

The kid is panting on the bench as he tries to calm his lungs down post-jog, but he hasn’t needed the oxygen to work out in three whole days, and Tony’s taking that as a good sign.

“I have a surprise,” Tony says, barely able to contain the smile working to spread itself across his lips. It’s not until he pulls Peter’s suit from his gym bag and nudges it toward him that Peter looks over. “Try it on.”

“No, Tony,” Peter says, shaking his head, even though he really wants to. “If I try it on, I’m only going to get more upset, and I really don’t want to cry right now.” His voice breaks.

“I think you need this more than you realize. I’ve reconfigured some of the coding so that Karen and FRIDAY can talk seamlessly. I also updated the Boomerang Protocol so that we get the proper alerts. Your mask now warms and filters the incoming air when it’s below a certain temperature, and Bruce and I found a way to incorporate your inhaler and epinephrine, just in case.”

“Tony,” Peter says, looking up with tears in his eyes as he holds the fabric in his hands. “Y-you didn’t have to...”

“Yes, I did, kid. You are the only Spiderman in our universe, and you deserve a suit even if you can’t be in battle right now.”

“But I’m…I’m never gonna get to wear it again.”

“You can still wear it. Doesn’t mean you’re going out to fight crime just yet, but I want to make sure I got it right. Go try it on.”

Peter’s still got the suit clutched in his hand as he throws himself around Tony, who holds him there against his chest. Tony knows that the kid’s had a long day, that he didn’t do as well on one of his midterms as he’d hoped, that he needed an Atrovent treatment this morning with it being so cold. Things have been getting better, yes, but they’ve also been staying frustratingly consistent, and Tony knows that Peter has pretty much resigned himself to being on the sidelines permanently.

The teen goes into the locker room to change into the suit and studies his figure in the mirror.

“Welcome back, Peter,” Karen chimes in his mask. “Would you like me to go through all of the new upgrades in your suit?”

It’s the best sound Peter’s heard in months.

He walks into the gym as Karen lists off the new features and asks if he wants to try some new webshooter combinations. He holds his arms out, as if to shoot webs, and pauses in realization.

“Go for it,” Tony says, giving him a nod.

“They don’t work, with the steroids…”

“Ah, but maybe they do,” Tony says, and he’s smirking, because he’s made some changes to the chemical structure, knows that while the tensile strength is somewhat compromised by his tinkering, the steroids Peter has been taking will no longer have such a devastating impact on his ability to shoot webs.

Peter takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the failure, before shooting webbing clear across the room.

“No way!” he yells, repeating the process, and soon, half of the gym is covered in webbing, Tony included. “Sorry, sorry!” Peter’s apologizing as he works to get the webbing off of Tony’s left arm and shoulder, but he’s grinning, can’t keep the smile that Tony hasn’t seen in over a month from coming out. “Can I…swing?” he asks, afraid of the answer.

“I don’t see why not,” Tony offers up, though he’s nervous on the inside; Peter’s arm strength isn’t what it used to be, not with the weight loss, and they’ve only focused on cardio at the gym so far. But Tony knows that he can’t show his apprehension, that even though he’s scared and anxious that Peter will have another attack, be it in the middle of the night, at school, or on patrol, he can’t let that fear affect Peter.

Peter’s cautious at first, shoots a small web at the ceiling to see if it’ll hold his body weight, grunts when he tries to get his arms and upper body to pull himself up. He fails, landing back on his feet with a thud, but he goes for it again, and again, until he’s able to lift himself up and swing across the room. “Yes!” he cheers, shooting another web, circling the gym for nearly fifteen minutes until he lands flat on his back, which knocks the wind out of him.

“Underoos?” Tony’s calling, running to him, and when he kneels beside Peter, he thinks he can hear wheezing, but then Peter’s laughing, even though he barely has the breath to do it, is pulling his mask off and rolling over onto his side. “Shit, kiddo. I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re gonna give me gray hair one of these days.”

“That…was…_awesome_,” he says, a hand on his chest. He’s wheezy, his chest heaving, but Tony can’t deny the look of contentment on the kid’s face.

“Think it’s about time for bed,” Tony comments, ruffling Peter’s hair.

“It’s not even that late!”

“It’s nearly eleven. Treatment and bed.” He sniffs at the air for a second and makes a face. “Maybe a shower too.”

Peter laughs, lets Tony help him up from the floor. He doesn’t take the suit off when he gets back to his room. Not yet, anyway. It makes him feel powerful in a way he can’t describe, is filling him with this happiness in his chest that radiates throughout his body. He can feel his breaths coming up short, but he doesn’t care, just wants to enjoy this feeling, the _idea_ of being Spiderman again.

In that moment, he decides that he wants _this_. That he needs this suit and everything that comes with it to survive beyond the in-between, that he’ll do anything to get as far with this as he can, even if it means he can’t patrol.

He is the only Spiderman, after all.

He just has to figure out how to be him when he _can’t be_.

Easier said than done.

He sits on his bed doing his breathing treatment, suit still on, and snaps a picture to send to MJ.

_Lol I feel like an Instagram with pictures like this would help a lot of little kids feel better about their treatments_, she texts.

And that’s when Peter gets an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter isn't the climax, though it might feel like it. I promise it's coming, though! Just a few chapters left. The Stark Gala, Disney, missions...


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was waiting to post, but with everything going on, I felt that this was a good time to get a chapter out. I'd like to thank HDAnalyst, LyraLollygagger, imagingtocrash, and savvysass!! You are all wonderful and made so many meaningful revision suggestions! Thank you! <3

**Chapter 21  
Tuesday, February 4**

“I’ve got decathlon and then I’m out to do some swinging again,” Peter reminds Tony over the phone after school as he walks toward Mr. Harrington’s classroom.

“Peter,” Tony warns with a tone that makes the teen roll his eyes.

He sighs, knowing what’s coming. “What?”

“Don’t overdo it, kiddo. You’re just getting back into the swing of things and you need sleep. Bruce clearly said-”

“I know, I know.” Tony has been on his back about _slowing down_ for weeks now, and it’s not that Peter doesn’t know how to, it's that he _doesn't want to. _Breathing without effort? Having a routine at school again? Swinging through the crisp New York city air and taking in the gorgeous skyline on a clear, winter night? He’s missed this. _All of this_.

“You just went out last night, and you were out later than we decided on.” Tony’s trying to tone down his concern and his scorn, but he can’t really help it. Peter’s just getting over being sick, is finally doing some of his normal activities, albeit modified, but he can’t fully shake the fear from the last month, has been trying to keep Peter as healthy as he can without any possibility for relapse, even though he knows he can’t control that, not completely, anyway.

“You know I can’t sleep well even with-”

“The low dose of steroids, I know. Still. I want you in by ten.”

“Tony! Come on,” he protests, practically whining.

Tony considers, takes a deep breath. “Fine, nine. Remember, though, you have the gala tomorrow. And no patrolling. Just swinging.”

“Nine? Really?!”

“Nine thirty.”

“Deal.”

Peter grins, thankful for the extra freedom, and disconnects the call before sliding into a desk for practice.

**Wednesday, February 5 ******

** **** **

** **** **

Peter pulls down on his tie, finds that the front section is too short and the back too long, and tries to undo it, only to find that it’s tangled too tight around his neck. He drops his tired arms to his sides and sighs.

“Let me,” Tony says from behind him, expertly undoing the knot and mess Peter’s created and working at it until Peter’s looking at a perfectly tied tie in the mirror.

Tony stands tall in a navy blue tailored suit with subtle stripes and a crisp white dress shirt. His tie is purple, silken, and perfectly snug against his neck. It’s a far cry from the pajamas and t-shirts Peter has gotten used to seeing him in. Peter can’t help but wish his hair was slicked back, every hair in place like Tony’s, rather than the mess of gel and short, brown curls he sees in the mirror. 

“T-thanks,” he says, trying to ward off the embarrassment of Tony having to fix his tie for him. The moment is a reminder that his life isn’t like everyone else’s, that there are things missing, _people_ missing, and it’s the same feeling he’s always gotten on Donuts with Dad or Muffins with Mom days in elementary school. It also doesn’t help that he’s practically vibrating with nerves. He’s supposed to give a speech tonight at the gala, has been practicing the line _Stark Industries has been the leader in technology and innovation since 1940…_

“I’ll teach you and have you practice when we’re not running behind schedule, kiddo.”

Peter nods. He grabs the dress coat jacket Pepper’s purchased, and slides his arms in.

“Backpack,” Tony reminds him.

Peter groans. “Come on, Tony! I’ll be fine! I’ve been doing okay!”

“It’s coming along. You got your watch on?”

“Yes, I’ve got my damn watch on!”

And maybe it’s the embarrassment or the nerves that make it come out so angrily, but suddenly, all Peter wants to do is stay home, away from the gala and people mother henning him about his watch and backpack.

“Hey,” Tony warns, putting a finger up. “Cool it, kid. We talked about this.”

Peter feels the guilt rise up in his chest and tries to swallow it down, but it stays put. He knows this isn’t just about him, even though he’s at the center of all of this, but somehow, that isn’t helping settle any of his emotions right now. 

“Talk it out. What’s on your mind?” Tony coaxes.

“I’m just really tired of everyone being _on me_ about my shitty lungs all of the time! I just want to be able to do this one thing without having to plan ahead and think about it.”

“I’m not asking you to wear the backpack,” Tony reminds him gently, and it takes everything in him not to match Peter’s level of emotion. “You can leave it in the car with Happy,” he offers as a solution.

Peter grumbles. “Fine.”

“Proud of you, Underoos,” Tony throws in, putting his hands on Peter’s shoulders.

Peter exhales and deflates, looking away from the mirror. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I mean it. Remember, tonight is all about fun. It’s a party, and I’m great at throwing parties, so there’s no possibility of disappointment on that front. You’re gonna get up there and knock the socks off of that crowd.”

“Giving a speech isn’t exactly my definition of _fun._”

“And afterwards, you’ll have a blast dancing with MJ.”

Peter bites his lip, refuses to look up. “I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?” Tony asks, fixing the collar of Peter’s shirt in the mirror.

“I don't know if I should go.”

“You’re going, Peter,” Tony says with a small chuckle. “No turning back now! The future of my internship depends on that speech. That, and MJ probably spent hours getting ready to try and wow you. We’re already running late, so technically, you’re keeping her waiting while you wallow in your public speaking anxiety, which is rude.”

Peter huffs.

“Tony, we’re going to be _late!” _Pepper yells down the hall.

“That’s our cue,” he says, smiling, nudging Peter to get him to at least smile. “Perk up, buttercup. Tonight could turn out to be the best night of your life.”

Peter grabs his backpack and his phone, feels it buzz in his hand but doesn’t look until he’s in the back of Happy’s Suburban.

_Can’t wait to see you, Loser_ 😜, MJ texts, every ounce of apprehension leaving Peter, a smile spread across his face in anticipation of seeing her.

x

The cocktail hour is the most elaborate scene Peter’s ever seen, with white glove service, glistening chandeliers, and a band playing live music. He’s still breathless from seeing MJ in her lavender cocktail dress, makeup natural, hair pulled up and into an elaborate style that makes her look older, somehow. They’ve been sitting in a corner on the most comfortable couch imaginable talking about everything from NASA’s proposed mission to Mars to _Top Gun_ for over an hour, and while he and MJ can’t drink the strawberry champagne going around, they’ve already commandeered enough Shirley Temples to last them a lifetime.

“Sweet potato puff and shrimp tartlet?” a server asks as he holds out a silver tray of treats.

“Thank you,” they say in unison, taking one of each for their plates. They’ve already devoured cheese and crackers, mini quiche, bruschetta, and chicken satay.

“Have you had shrimp before?” MJ asks before dipping and biting into hers.

“I think so?” he answers, going for the sweet potato puff first. There’s cinnamon, which reminds him of May’s sweet potato casserole on Thanksgiving. “Oh, this one’s good,” he comments, pointing to MJ’s on her plate.

“Here,” she says, dipping Peter’s shrimp and holding it up to his lips. “You have to try this!” He lets MJ put the shrimp in his mouth and chews. The taste is different than he’s expected, and while he’s not a fan of seafood (has May ever cooked fish?), he decides he likes it. 

“Not bad,” he comments, nodding.

“So, how much money do you think these people have?” MJ whispers, surveying the room.

Peter finishes chewing and swallows. “More than God but definitely less than Tony,” he jokes. “I don’t even know why he’s holding a fundraiser; he has the money for a number of grants and projects.”

“Does he, though?” And it’s the first time Peter’s ever wondered if maybe something isn’t right, that maybe Stark Industries is _losing_ money rather than making it. He shakes his head, gets the thought to disappear.

“This gala happens every year. It’s been going on since Howard started the company. I think Tony does it as more of a formality than anything else.”

“You sure about that? Seems like Tony’s doing an awful lot of networking.”

“I don’t think Tony is ever _not_ networking,” Peter jokes.

“T-minus thirty minutes until speech time,” Tony says as he approaches, patting Peter on the shoulder. “You ready?”

“I, uh, think this is gonna be a no-go,” Peter answers, swallowing the lump in his throat. His hands grow sweaty at the mention of the speech, at the window of time until now and then closing. “I can’t do this, Tony.”

“You’re doing this,” Tony reminds him with a look and a wide smile. “And you’re gonna be great. Gotta prepare the next Tony Stark somehow, right?”

And while Peter wants that more than anything, he doesn’t want to have to do it _right now_.

“Freshen up and meet me near the ice sculpture in fifteen,” Tony says, waving at someone across the room before walking away.

Peter puts his plate down and groans.

“He’s right, you know,” MJ says, fixing his collar and tie. “You’re going to be perfect.”

“Can’t be perfect if I can’t get words out.”

“You practically have the speech memorized,” she says, laughing. “_Stark Industries has been the leader in technology and innovation since 1940…_”

“You should do the speech,” he jokes nervously.

“Not happening.”

“Please? Just this once, MJ.”

“Nope. You got the internship and grant first. Not my show tonight.” 

Peter groans and closes his eyes.

“They had warm towels in the bathroom. Go clean up while I get you a glass of water.”

MJ disappears into the crowd, so he goes into the bathroom, wipes his face and hands with a warm towel and meets MJ back where they left off. A few sips into his ice water, he realizes that he feels weird. He presses a hand to his stomach, tries to take a deep breath, and finds that he _can’t_. That, and there’s a painful tightness growing right around his diaphragm.

“Peter?” MJ asks, and she’s looking at him funny.

“Hmm?”

“You’re sweating. You okay?” MJ asks, putting her plate down on a nearby table.

“Y-yeah,” he lies. “Yeah yeah yeah.” His entire body feels electrified, tingly, and he can’t place the feeling. “Just nervous.”

“Peter, please don’t lie to me. You promised you’d tell me if you weren’t okay.”

He tries to take a deep breath again and comes up short, and it’s not until he rubs his fingertips over his lips that he realizes they’re tingling.

“Your lips,” MJ comments, eyes wide, as she turns him so he can look in a nearby mirror. They’re puffy and red with hives. He goes to speak, but all that comes out is a wheeze. He looks up in panic, presses a hand to his chest, and tries again to take a deep breath, only to fail. “Shit,” MJ says, sitting him down on the couch. She presses the emergency button on the side of Peter’s StarkWatch and works to undo his tie and collar so that he can breathe easier. “I’m gonna go find Tony, okay?” she asks, and before he can protest, she’s gone, lost in the party while Peter sits and gasps, feels everything slow and dim around him. 

x

Tony feels his world collapse the second he receives Peter’s emergency alert on his Stark Watch. He’s pushing through the crowd, nearly knocking people over in the process, stopping only when his eyes fall on Peter on the floor, his lips red and swollen, chest fighting for air with deep, punctuating wheezes.

It brings him to his knees.

He can barely process that he’s crying as he takes Peter’s hand in his and chokes out, “What happened?! What’s happening?” to Pepper, who’s holding a used epi pen in her hand.

“He had shrimp,” MJ’s trying to explain, her hands shaking. “He didn’t know he was allergic!”

He’s scooping Peter into his arms, can see just how blue his lips are up close, and dashes through the crowded gala to the front doors of the hall, Pepper and MJ following closely behind.

“Boss, what’s-” Happy starts, but stops when he sees Peter, opening the back door to the Suburban before rushing to the driver’s seat.

They scramble into the car, MJ in the front while Pepper tries to help Tony keep Peter’s airway open in the back.

“Come on, Pete! Come on!” Tony’s coaxing with tears as Happy zips through traffic to get to the Tower. He rips the end cap of a second epi-pen off and jams it into the kid’s thigh, and dammit, Peter’s looking up at him, but his eyes are dazed, and Tony would almost prefer the look asking him to fix it and Peter’s hand reaching up to grab his shirt, because having him limp and nearly lifeless in his arms is making his heart stutter in his chest. “Stay with me, Underoos! Please!”

He can’t get a breath, not even a baby gulp, until suddenly, he can, is taking uneven, raspy intakes that sound awful and don’t slow Tony’s racing heart. He’s trying to cough, but they’re getting stuck somehow, his eyes going wide as his airways spasm against his will. Tony’s got him up and against his chest now, feels Peter fighting with everything in him just to get air, and he’s about ready to just jump out of the car and start running the last two blocks with him in his arms, but Happy’s pulling up to the Tower.

And even though Tony can barely see through the tears in his eyes, he’s _running_. With his heartbeat staccato and a sharp pain radiating from his sternum, Tony is running as fast as he can with his kid in his arms, can only think of getting him to Bruce, of getting him _breathing_ again.

He turns down the familiar halls, his dress shoes slick against the tile as he holds Peter to his chest. Peter’s lips are still blue despite the injections, and Tony feels like he can’t breathe, either, because he’s convinced that this is it, that this is where he loses him, that this is the thing that takes Peter from him.

He rushes into MedBay, thankful that Happy’s called ahead to the Tower, and places him on the bed, watches as Bruce and Cho begin to apply monitors and administer oxygen and medication. A nurse is cutting Peter’s tie and dress shirt off, ignoring the buttons, so that Bruce can attach heart monitor pads to his chest.

It’s the tie that Tony fixed hours earlier, when he convinced Peter to go to the gala despite his reservations.

“He's not getting enough oxygen,” Bruce is trying to explain, as if Tony doesn’t already know that, as if Peter’s blue lips and fingernails aren’t enough of an indication. But Tony knows what he’s saying, is just unable to process it because he’s trying not to fall apart completely, is pushing himself to calm down because needs to be alert and advocating for Peter.

Only he _can’t_. The sobs ripping through his body aren’t doing his heart any favors, and he’s clutching Peter’s free hand as a nurse gets an IV line going in his arm, willing his kid to just _breathe_.

x

When Peter opens his eyes again, he’s propped up in MedBay, an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose giving him a treatment. He can’t breathe, realizes that there are hot tears sliding down his face and landing on his bare chest. He’s still in his dress pants, but his chest is bare and covered in small electrode pads and wires connected to nearby monitors. His senses are overwhelmed by the hissing of the machines and the beeping of the monitors. He can’t remember how he got here, how much time has passed, and it throws him into a higher level of panic.

He pants hysterically beneath the mask, lets out a small sob, and he doesn’t think anyone’s heard him until Tony comes into his vision, sits on the side of his bed, and cards his fingers through his hair.

“Pete?” he asks, panic in his eyes. “Can you hear me, kiddo?”

“Can’t breathe,” he wheezes deeply, squeezing his eyes closed.

“Trying to fix that, Underoos. This was a bad one. Hang in there for me, okay?”

He wheezes in response, uses his whole body just to get a decent lungful of air, but when he goes to get another, he realizes that his lungs are seizing, that they aren’t responding to his brain’s directions. His eyes go wide as he works to get another breath in, and he succeeds but it’s short and wheezy, makes his head spin, and he’s suddenly scared to fall into the darkness again. He grips Tony’s hand, squeezes as tightly as he can.

“I’m right here, kiddo. Not going anywhere.” That’s when Peter notices the tear marks on Tony’s cheeks.

“His oxygen’s gone up only slightly and he’s having apnea spells.” Bruce moves the metal disc of his stethoscope to Peter’s chest, listening intently as Peter’s airways spasm again and refuse to let him breathe. The kid coughs, and Bruce pulls his stethoscope away from his ears to wrap it around his neck. “His airways are constricting and clogged with so much mucus that the nebulized medicine isn’t getting in. See this?” he asks, pointing to Peter’s lower abdomen and then again near his shoulders as he finally gets a breath in. “His lungs are tired from working so hard, so his body is using auxiliary muscles to breathe. I can’t use the vest on him to clear the mucus with his breathing so compromised. He needs mechanical help. I’ve already given him a dose of epi, and that’s after the two you said you gave him at the gala. This has turned critical, Tony. Someone without healing abilities might not survive a reaction this extensive. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Peter feels himself going in and out, wants to ask what medications they used because his lungs feel tighter than ever and his heart is about ready to take off out of his chest. And then he remembers MJ, needs to know if she’s okay, if she got _home_ okay, and he’s crying again, trying to speak but unable to make anything but the awful dying seal wheeze that he hates more than anything else.

“Peter, we’re going to put you on a BiPap mask and do another breathing treatment with some steroids,” Bruce announces. “It’s going to feel different than the nasal cannula, but it’ll help. I’m also going to give you another shot of epinephrine. I know your heart feels like it’s pounding but we’ve gotta get your airways open, kid. Just a little bit longer, okay?”

The contraption, a mask with large tubing rather than the cannula he’s used to, a nebulizer reservoir, and lines for oxygen and the machine, is much more involved than Peter anticipated, but his brain is getting foggy again, and he doesn’t have the energy to fight it when Tony removes the oxygen mask and Bruce fits the new mask and the straps around his head. It takes him a few breaths to get used to the rhythm and pressure against his face and he feels his airways start to open after Bruce injects him with another dose of epinephrine. His heart still feels like it’s throttling, but he can finally _breathe_.

He turns his head to the side and closes his eyes in relief, tears falling down and around the mask. The machine is forcing his inhales when his lungs seize up and refuse to breathe on their own, which is weird, but his head isn’t as fuzzy anymore, fingertips don’t feel as tingly. He relishes the timed inhales and exhales, feels the ache in his chest muscles dim marginally.

“Oxygen’s looking better,” Bruce announces as he listens to the kid’s breathing and looks up to read the monitors, but all Peter cares about is how much easier it is to get a simple breath. 

“I’m gonna go check on those labs and x-rays,” Bruce says, a hand on Tony’s shoulder, adding, “I’ll only be a couple of footsteps away, alright?”

Tony nods as Bruce leaves, but one look over at Peter, and he breaks.“ Kiddo,” Tony says, voice shaking, his face twisting before he becomes a mess of sobs and tears from his place seated on the side of Peter’s bed. “Fuck. _I’m so sorry_.”

“M’scared,” Peter puffs beneath the mask, a new round of tears forming and falling as he tries not to get hysterical. He doesn’t want to make his breathing worse, doesn’t want to go back to whatever was happening before.

“I know, kiddo,” Tony says, sniffling as he wipes the tears from under Peter’s eyes. “I know. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. This one was so bad. _So so_ bad. I’m sorry it took so long to get it to _stop_.” His voice cracks on the last word, lips trembling as he tries not to sob.

Peter reaches a hand out, misses Tony’s because he can barely see over the behemoth of a mask on his face and his arms are so tired, but Tony re-takes his hand in his, tries to put on a smile. “I’m just really thankful you’re okay,” he says quietly, sniffling as he squeezes Peter’s hand. “At the gala, you were…_blue_, and I thought…_fuck_.” He sniffles, turns and covers his face, shakes his head. “FRIDAY was alerting and your meds were in the car, but Pepper had her epi-pen in her purse and got there first. _Thank God she had it in her purse_.”

“May?” Peter puffs beneath the mask, fresh tears in his eyes.

Tony checks his phone, sees that Pepper’s left him three brief but hopeful messages. He reads them out loud to Peter. “Pepper left a message for May. Happy took MJ home. She’s shaken up but okay.” He lets out an unsteady sigh, puts his phone in his pocket, and runs a hand through his hair. “Did you know you had a shellfish allergy?” Peter shakes his head ‘no’ and it’s only then that he realizes it was the shrimp that did him in.

This wasn’t so much asthma as it was anaphylaxis.

_Food allergies._  
  
One more thing to worry about.

“I’m really sorry, Pete. I had no idea. I would _never_ have let them serve shellfish if I knew,” he says, brushing Peter’s hair out of his face.

And Peter wants to interject and reassure Tony that this isn’t his fault, but he barely has the breath to do it, wouldn’t be able to get all of the words out. He’s exhausted and his body aches horribly. All he can do is sit there and let the machine time his inhales and exhales, let his body _rest_.

“You must be freezing,” Tony says, and while Peter is shaking from the medication, he’s also a bit chilly. He’s been so distracted, so focused on breathing, that he hasn’t even felt cold until now. Tony grabs a blanket from a nearby cart and carefully covers Peter to his shoulders, tucking in the sides so it doesn’t slip. He’s mindful of the tubing, wires, and Peter’s IV, sits right back where he was on the edge of the bed when he’s done. “You’ve been working so hard to get back to patrolling. I’m _so sorry_, _Underoos_.”

And it’s that last word that makes Peter’s lip tremble, makes him realize how close this time was. He’s finally with it enough to realize how _serious_ this is.

“Please don’t cry,” Tony says as _he_ cries, his chin hitting his chest. “Crying makes it worse.”

“T-tony,” Peter manages, his voice cracking as his hand frantically reaches out beneath the blanket to make contact with Tony’s. The panic is welling up again, his eyes going wide.

“Right here, kiddo. I’m right here.” He squeezes Peter’s hand again and tries to hold back his tears. “I’m gonna stay with you, okay?”

Peter nods, tries to sniffle, but finds he can’t with the mask.

“Close your eyes and get some rest.”

Peter shakes his head, feels the panic swell within him as he sobs.

“It’s okay to be scared. I’ll be right here all night. You’re okay, Pete. You’re gonna be okay.”

“G-gonna…_die_,” he whispers, new tears falling.

“You’re not going to die,” Tony soothes, brushing Peter’s hair.

“Almost did,” Peter adds. “_Like Gus_. M’scared, Tony! What if…what if…”

_What if it comes back when the medication wears off?_

And even though Tony has no idea who Gus is, he says, “I know, kiddo. I know. I was so scared I was gonna lose you and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure this doesn’t happen again. Do you hear me? I’m going to make Bruce do every allergy test under the goddamn sun and then some!”

And Peter isn’t expecting it, but Tony takes his jacket off and kicks his shoes to the side, climbs right into the bed next to him, fixing the blanket again even though it’s fine where it is, and holds his hand so tightly that Peter’s convinced he will be okay if he just leans into Tony and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, this isn't the climax! More whump and fluff to come! (I'm anticipating 3-5 more long-ish chapters until the end!) Let me know what you think!


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22  
Saturday, February 8**

Peter’s thankful that the last two days have been mostly cloudy in his memory. He doesn’t want to remember May’s face when she saw him so sick with machines and tubes and wires all over, and he doesn’t want to remember the specifics of the dreadful, failed attempt at coming off of the BiPap, how the apnea spells returned and sent him into a horrific panic attack that was made worse by having to be back on the BiPap machine in order to breathe for most of Thursday.

He’s happy to be in his own bed by the weekend, albeit with continuous oxygen and around-the-clock treatments again, including the annoying vest treatment. It wasn’t his asthma this time, but the reaction _sparked_ a flare of his asthma, and he hates the idea that he is starting from what feels like scratch again, even though Bruce has assured him that he isn’t.

_All because he ate a single shrimp at the gala._

MJ shows up with a movie, microwave popcorn, and a bag full of boxed candy. It brings a welcome smile to Peter’s face, even if he does think Good N Plenty should be banned.

“_Hidden Figures_,” she says, holding the movie up. “Science, kicking racism in the ass, and women in STEM.”

“MJ,” Peter says, but MJ won’t look up, is rifling through the bag of candy.

“I wasn’t sure if you were a Milk Dud or Sour Patch Kids person, so I kind of bought up the dollar section,” she says, ignoring him.

“MJ.”

“What?” she asks, finally lifting her gaze.

“I can tell that you’re trying really hard not to bring up what happened, and I appreciate that…but you’re also not looking at me, and you never used to do that before.” He takes a deep breath, thankful for the oxygen, and leans his head back against the pillow. “I promise I’m fine.”

She sits on the side of his bed, doesn’t crawl in beside him like usual, and Peter isn’t quite sure how he’s going to make this better, make it _okay_, because dammit, _none of this is fine_.

It never was, even though everyone has been telling him over and over that it is, but it _really isn’t_ fine now.

“You're fine here in this moment, but Peter…you weren’t at the gala, and you weren’t in the car.” And she’s crying, but not in the way Peter’s expected. Her face isn’t twisting like Tony’s does, and her hands aren’t coming up to wipe her tears away like May does, and it feels wrong. _All of it feels so wrong. _She’s stoic, isn’t even looking down, and for a moment, Peter questions whether or not she’s actually crying. But then there are tears dropping onto her jeans, and he reaches for her hand, but she’s pulling it away, and now he’s debating just asking her to leave because it feels like maybe she can’t handle this, like maybe he shouldn’t want her to, shouldn’t expect her to.

He doesn’t want to think like that, but of course he is.

Peter knows _he_ can’t even handle this, and he’s somehow supposed to expect MJ to after what happened?

“I’m sorry, MJ,” Peter’s offering, his voice worn from medicine and sleep, but the words feel flat and unaffecting. “I’m sorry that it happened and I’m sorry that it could happen again, I…I can’t control it, it just…h-happens?” Tears are rolling down his own face even though he was _sure_ he was cried out.

She turns toward him with a sniffle, looks him in the eye. “I know you can’t, Peter. That’s why I’m so upset! I’m not mad at you, I’m just mad that you have to deal with all of this.”

“I don’t really remember much else, because I blacked out, but I know you saw all of it and I’m just…really, really sorry, MJ. I’m-,” he chokes out, the tears streaming down his cheeks as he sobs. These moments keep happening, take over when Peter is _sure_ he’s fine, and it’s been the ultimate blow to his confidence. “You don’t have to stay. With me, I mean. I get it. This is a lot. I’m...I’m a grenade like Hazel and I’m…”

“You are _not_ a grenade, Peter, and you have _no_ reason to be sorry.” She wraps herself around him, Peter leaning away from the pillows and into her. “You didn’t know,” she whispers, squeezing tightly. “It’s okay. You had no idea about the shrimp.”

And then she sobs, big, ugly sobs that Peter was not expecting. He hugs her back, places a hand on the back of her head to steady her, and kisses her forehead.

“I should be comforting _you_,” she half-laughs, half-cries, which slows her sobbing down.

“No, MJ. I...I think I needed this. To comfort someone else. I’ve done more than enough thinking and crying about this. Trust me.”

“But you shouldn’t have to comfort _me_ when _you’re_ the one who went through it!” she’s blubbering.

“Yeah, well, it was a lot for you, too. At least I blacked out,” he says with a small laugh. “You didn’t get that option.”

She pulls away just enough to make eye contact with him, their red, glassy eyes meeting. Her lip quivers. “You couldn’t breathe.”

“Breathing now, though,” he says softly, fixing her hair. “See?” He takes a deep draw from the oxygen and lets it out slowly.

“Show off,” she jokes with a sniffle, kissing him on the lips. Peter can taste the salt from her tears, but he doesn’t mind. She goes in for another kiss, and then another, until her and Peter are sliding down the pillows to lie flat on the bed, MJ resting softly atop his body.

“You’re cute when you’re like this,” he flirts.

“I’m cute all of the time, thank you very much!” she asserts, going in to kiss him again.

He’s smiling now, letting his hands caress the small of her back. He almost forgets the oxygen beneath his nose, the breathing treatment he has to do soon.

“Can’t keep up with me, loser?” she taunts when his breathing grows heavy and uneven.

“Need a...minute,” he wheezes, closing his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. With anyone else, he’d be embarrassed, _mortified_, even, but with MJ, he lets those negative feelings trying to claw their way into this moment melt away. 

“Is it like breathing through a straw again?” she asks softly, nestling herself beside him so that his lungs have space to expand. He nods, eyes still closed, and feels MJ take his hand in hers. “Just let me know when.”

He wants to ask her _when what_, but he doesn’t. He worries it’s her asking if she should leave, like she did during break, and the thought scares him because he wants her _here_, holding his hand, helping him get through this.

They lay there, Peter’s wheezing filling the room as he pants softly.

_He’s always wheezy now._

Peter closes his eyes again, tries not to cry at how shitty he feels. He doesn't want to, not after he and MJ both sobbed and talked about what was arguably the worst night of his life. He’s tired of doingthis, of doing this painful thing to everyone he loves. So fucking tired.

They do that thing where Peter sleeps through a treatment and much of the movie, exactly as they did most of break. He’s wheezy even after the treatment, but he can breathe. He catches snippets here and there, mostly when the music swells or someone is yelling, MJ there with her head on his pillow, periodically adjusting his oxygen when it slips because he keeps turning onto his side toward her. He wants to apologize, but he can barely keep his eyes open, can’t form the words on his lips.

It’s more than enough to make anyone leave, but she stays like she always does, gives commentary on the music choices and costuming. She asks him questions without him having to answer, rhetorical ones, mostly, where she speaks for him to agree and disagree with a playfulness that makes him smile. He clings on to the normalcy in it, breathes it in.

“You doing okay?” she whispers when the movie is finished, when it’s just regular TV programming turned down low on the screen and he’s in her arms, lying on her chest, her chin resting atop on his head. “Be honest. You know you don’t have to lie just to make me feel comfortable.”

He looks up at her with sleepy eyes, too tired to speak, and blinks, squeezing her hand. _Yes_.

X

**Wednesday, February 12**

By mid-week, Peter is back to his pre-reaction state, with a few extra preemptive breathing and vest treatments added into the mix. Tony stands in Peter’s doorway a little after nine in the evening on Wednesday, still in his suit and tie, his hands in his pockets, watching as Peter finishes homework and does a treatment at his desk. Peter can sense that Tony’s there, even over the buzzing of the nebulizer, which means his spidey senses are slowly coming back to him. He turns toward the door with the nebulizer mouthpiece between his lips and smiles, nodding for Tony to enter.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony says tiredly, sauntering over. He glances at the open textbook and notebook on the desk. “Molarity, eh? Need any help?”

Peter pulls the nebulizer mouthpiece from his lips to say, “No, think I’ve got it, thanks though,” before returning it.

“You do your vest?”

“Before dinner. Didn't wanna puke again.”

Tony nods, acknowledging that that’s been an issue. “Smart.”

Peter’s nebulizer runs dry, so he turns the machine off and sets the mouthpiece aside, pausing to study Tony for a moment. “You look..._exhausted_.”

“Wow, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Tony jokes, ruffling Peter’s hair and leaning over his homework again. Peter laughs, gets back to his work. “Remember, kid, you have to perform metric conversions before you plug in for volume,” Tony comments.

“Milliliters to liters, I know. King Henry Doesn’t Usually Drink Chocolate Milk.”

“Hmm. Interesting acronym. Just keeping you sharp.” He pauses, leaning against the bed post, but Peter’s too busy to sense the tone shift in the room. “Hey, um, did you want me to leave an Ativan in here tonight?” Tony tries to ask gently. Peter’s pencil stops mid calculation on the page, his body frozen. 

Last night’s intense nightmare had left him inconsolable, screaming and shaking with absolute fear. He can’t remember the details, but he remembers the way that the _fear_ gripped him and wouldn’t let go, Tony there and holding him tight, giving him an Ativan when fifteen minutes had passed and he couldn’t stop hyperventilating. And while it wasn’t an asthma attack, didn’t even require breathing meds to correct, Peter had woken up groggy, slivers of fear lingering when they weren’t welcome.

Peter’s eyes well up with tears. “Tony, I’m -”

He puts a hand up. “I’m gonna stop you right there because you are _not_ apologizing for having another nightmare,” Tony says, sitting on the kid’s bed with a sigh. “Look, I know that I haven’t been around as much as I should’ve been this week, and I’m sorry about that. Work has me stressed to my gills right now and I wanted everything settled before we took our trip. Last night-”

Peter’s eyes a wide with panic. “I-I shouldn’t have woken you.”

“Peter, come on. You know that you can _always_ wake me or Pepper if something is wrong. _Always_.”

“You need your sleep, Tony,” Peter rambles. “I heard Pepper yesterday after dinner, and you look so tired! You’re not well, and...”

Tony waves a hand in the air. “Forget about me for a moment. You know that the gala, and the nightmare last night, aren’t your fault, right?”

“I don’t know.”

Tony sighs. “Underoos. Come on. We didn’t come this far for you to suddenly think every flare up is your fault again.”

“It’s just,” he starts, bouncing his leg in anxiety.

“It’s just...what?” Tony says, nodding his head for him to continue.

“It’s just that I thought I was getting better, and now I’m realizing that it could happen again. That it _will_ happen again.”

Tony gives an empathetic grin, and sighs. “Bruce told us that it might, kiddo. Actually, not might, _would_.”

“Yeah, but I didn't think it’d be so bad that I’d almost die again!” Peter argues, closing his eyes as he exhales quickly to calm down. He controls his breaths, thankful for the treatment he’s just done. “I wasn’t ready for the reaction. I was already so tired with treatments and school and everything. It’s just really sucky, I guess.” He plays with a loose thread on the end of his t-shirt. “I was looking forward to Disney, and now I don’t know if I even want to go.” He hates the words as they come out of his mouth. Tony has done _all of this_ for Peter, the planning, paying the money and scheduling other things for their trip, too. All of this to cheer him up, to give him something to look forward to after he asked for it specifically that night in MedBay. He knows letting this disease take Disney from him when he’s physically well enough to go would be stupid, but he’s also emotionally exhausted. He’s tired of making it look like he’s got everything under control when he knows he’s falling apart on the inside.

Last night, he knows, was a stark reminder of the fact that he’s not handling this as well as he wants to, and he doesn't understand _why_. 

He doesn’t get why it has to happen when he’s asleep and vulnerable.

“I’m just gonna leave this here, okay?” Tony asks, pulling a pill bottle from his jacket and placing it on Peter’s nightstand. “I have it set for FRIDAY to wake me. I really don’t mind. You know that, but I need you to _believe it_, kiddo.”

Peter nods, looks down at his hands.

“I promised I’d get you to Disney.” Tony has a hand on his shoulder, but Peter can’t get himself to look up at him. “When I said that, I meant physically _and_ emotionally. I know this is hard for you, Underoos. I know and I’m so sorry. I wish things were different.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

Peter sighs. “Well, we can’t really do more than we already are. Bruce said that at my appointment on Monday. So…”

“We can still go to Disney,” Tony says, kissing him on the head. “But I understand if it’s too much.”

_Too much._

Those words.

The Nucala injections? Too much. The vest machine? Too much. Thinking about BiPap? Too much.

But Disney?

“I think I still wanna go,” Peter says, looking up at Tony.

A smile spreads across Tony’s face. “Yeah?”

Peter laughs. “Yeah.”

“Make a small list, like Bruce said. All the things you really want to do.” _In case you can’t do everything_.

Peter doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s already started a list in his phone. He’s been trying to keep his mind off of the obvious by digging into Disney blogs.

He just hopes this trip is enough to get him past the awful flashbacks from the gala.

x

**Wednesday, February 19**

Tony’s worked hard to keep Peter’s mind off of things. They geeked out at Griffith Park and the California Science Center on Monday. Yesterday, Tuesday, they’d made it a little under an hour at the La Brea Tar Pits before Peter started getting wheezy from the fumes, spent the rest of the day sitting around the pool being lazy. Or rather, _Peter_ was lazy, alternating between bobbing in an inflatable tube and napping in the sun; Tony was preoccupied with reading everything ever published on nanotech and fielding SI emails.

Their morning at Disney starts nearly two hours before the parks open, with Peter sleeping through most of the car ride from Malibu to Anaheim. When he wakes, Tony forces a smoothie on him (he can taste the hidden kale and immediately knows Pepper has put Tony up to this) and handful of his pills from his pill organizer. He takes puffs from his inhalers and occupies himself during his four-minute morning breathing treatment (thank you, Tony) by scrolling through the list of rides and snacks he’s determined to accomplish today. 

Rides:  
Splash Mountain  
Space Mountain  
Big Thunder Mountain  
Haunted Mansion  
Pirates of the Caribbean

Snacks:  
Churro  
Mickey Ice Cream  
Dole Whip  
Cotton Candy

He’s keeping it small, like Bruce has recommended, in case he can’t make it the full day. At first, it had been upsetting, but then he’d read about FastPasses and Disney snacks, and he figures the less time standing and more he breaks for snacks, the more he can space the day out to get on more rides.

Peter wants to be excited, knows he’s been working his butt off most of the last week trying to get back to where he was before the gala, but he also knows that familiar pull in his lungs at the three-hour mark between treatments a little too well now, and he hates to think that his body might not let him fully enjoy the day as he, and Tony, intend to. Walking through the gates, though, brings a smile to his face, the colors and lively music helping him focus positively on the day ahead.

They skip Main Street and veer off in the direction of their first FastPass.

“You _will_ get soaked,” Tony reads from a sign once they’re in the queue for Splash Mountain. “Huh.”

“Drop your socks and grab your Crocs, we're about to get wet on this ride!” Peter jokes, trying to get into the Disney spirit, and Tony looks over, amused by the fact that Peter’s quoting something he said during a battle with Rhodey against the Hammer drones at the Stark Expo years ago.

Tony’s eyes narrow as he tilts his head. “You hacking into FRIDAY and watching old footage?”

Peter’s eyes widen and he stiffens. “Maybe?” he asks slowly.

Tony’s sharp facial features soften. “It’s fine, actually. Figured you might want to see some of my suit’s footage since I can see yours.”

“So, I’m not that good of a hacker, then?”

“Nope. Planted that bait for you and you took and it _ran_.”

Peter sighs. “Thought maybe I was catching up to you.”

“You’re fifteen, Peter. You have loads of time to catch up to me.”

“Still going to get wet on the ride.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it!”

It doesn't take them long to get to the front, thanks to Tony’s FastPass skills, and before long, they’re sitting in a log flume, cracking jokes about the puppets and music.

The picture that appears on their digital PhotoPass afterwards is Tony screaming, eyes wide and face stuck in a state of absolute horror with Peter in the seat before him, hands up and a wide grin on his face.

Peter puts his phone to his chest and laughs. “We’re framing this.”

“We’re not,” Tony says, pointedly. “Also, I’m angry about the puppets,” adds, his still-wet shoes squishing on the pavement. “It’s 2020. That tech is unacceptable. Think Disney needs a new imagineer?”

“It’s called vintage, Tony.”

“It’s _campy_ is what it is,” Tony huffs.

They share a churro and tackle Big Thunder Mountain, Haunted Mansion, and Pirates of the Caribbean before Tony announces that it’s time for a treatment and lunch. Peter’s not excited to take a treatment in public, though, so he drags his feet a bit as they walk until Tony finds a small table with an umbrella off to the side of a quick service restaurant. It’s somewhat hidden and shaded, and that’s when Peter realizes that Tony _gets it_, why he’s found this little hideaway. Peter figures that five minutes of “dealing with it,” _it _being his lungs, is better than having to cut the day short, so he takes his Atrovent puffs and does his treatment, tries not to think about how the taste of Xopenex brings him back to his allergic reaction, to waking up with his airways locked in a bright room in MedBay.

The last week has mostly been Peter trying to mitigate the onslaught of anxiety attacks without Ativan, because needing it to help him come out of it means getting Tony involved, which means he’ll know how often they're happening. Peter’s tweaked an algorithm in Karen and FRIDAY’s coding so that he can preemptively turn off the high heart rate alert before Tony receives it, and so far, it’s worked to his advantage. He’s been able to hide the two panic attacks in the subway before school, the other two before bed last week, and one case of sensory overload during lunch.

It hasn't helped keep Tony from waking him during the two nightmares since arriving in California, though, since Peter hasn’t figured out how to get the high heart rate alerts to stop all together.

His plan is to keep the rest of it from Tony for as long as he can, doesn't want him or anyone else worrying any more than they already are. Plus, they’re at Disney, and Disney is supposed to be the Happiest Place on Earth.

So he finishes his meds without complaint, packs up his bag, and announces that he’s starving.

A waitress leads them to a table at Blue Bayou inside of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride and asks if they’re celebrating anything special. Peter starts to shake his head as he takes a menu, but then he sees that Tony’s eyebrows are knitted like he’s thinking, and Peter’s heart sinks. He’s been waiting for Tony to bring up his being sick, make this trip feel more like a Make a Wish than a fun adventure for just the two of them, but instead, Tony says, “It’s the kid’s first time at Disney.” Tony’s suddenly all smiles, embodying his trademark Tony Stark exuberance. “I guess if there’s anything to be celebrated, it’s that!” 

“Awesome! I’ll be sure to let Mickey know,” the waitress says, winking as she matches Tony’s energy. “I’ll be right back to take your drink and food order.”

“What…was that?” Peter asks.

“What was what?” Tony says, putting his reading glasses on to see the menu.

“The wink. Do you know her or something?”

“It’s Disney, Peter. Ever hear of pixie dust? And no, I don’t know her.”

“But she knows you.”

“Everyone thinks they know me, Peter,” Tony says, laughing. “Disney isn’t exactly the best place to go incognito as Tony Stark.”

Peter considers it, and realizes that Tony is right.

They order, Tony quietly mentioning Peter’s shellfish allergy, and the waitress winks again as she collects their menus. He takes in the candle-lit scene around him, can smell the chlorine in the water for the ride, hear the chirping crickets and twang of a banjo. He feels like he’s _at_ the bayou, and he has to admit that he wasn’t expecting Disney to be so, well, _entrancing and happy_, but he has to admit that it’s a welcome change from the last few weeks.

x

“Nope,” Tony says after taking one look at the spinning teacups ride. They’re in the section of the park clustered with what Peter has coined the “baby rides,” but he doesn't care.

Peter’s practically pouting. “But you promised at lunch!”

“Definitely not _after_ lunch, kiddo.”

“Would you rather we wait in line for Dumbo, Tony? Is that more your speed, old man?” Peter jokes.

Twenty minutes later, the two are seated in a giant elephant, ripping through the skies at a measly five miles an hour.

“I feel ridiculous,” Tony mumbles with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

“Wooooo!” Peter yells with his hands up.

“Is that really necessary?” Tony scoffs, but Peter knows he’s doing it in jest.

“Absolutely!”

They tackle Space Mountain next, wait in line for nearly forty minutes to get on while Peter rambles about the physics of rollercoasters.

“We _have to _do that again!” Peter rushes out as they exit the ride, is as energetic as Tony’s seen him in _weeks_, and he can’t find it within him to say no, but he’s not sure he can stand for that long again, is starting to fatigue from all of the walking. Luckily, a couple is trying to give away their paper FastPasses for two hours later, so Tony trades their Soarin’ passes, realizing that Peter might not fare so well with the artificial scents released during the ride. The kid is wheezy even though he’s just had a treatment three hours prior, but it seems to be from running and excitement, which Tony is fine with for now. He doesn’t seem like he’s struggling, has been letting Tony know when he needs a minute to catch his breath. A week ago, he wasn’t even sure Peter would be up for so much walking, and here they are, taking Disney by storm. There’s the smile of all smiles on Peter’s face, and it’s worth every penny Tony’s invested in this trip.

He buys Peter a Mickey Ice Cream as an excuse to sit in the shade and take some heart medication away from the crowds before they head toward the Cars/Radiator Springs area.

x

“You’re getting really wheezy, kiddo,” Tony comments during the fireworks as he places a hand on Peter’s shoulder. It’s only been two hours since his last treatment and puffs of Atrovent, which is concerning.

“It ain’t easy being wheezy!” he jokes, pointing playfully at Tony with a smile.

“Okay, no more cotton candy for you,” Tony kids, reaching for the cotton candy bag in Peter’s hand.

“No!” Peter says, laughing, pulling it away before Tony can grab it.

“Inhaler.”

“I wanted to watch the end of the fireworks!”

“We can leave and do a treatment in the car, would you prefer we do that?”

Peter groans, annoyed with the attention their argument is gaining. “Come on, Tony! There’s probably only, like, ten minutes left!”

“Peter, don’t get pouty on me.” Tony’s eyes are fixed, _serious_, and Peter has to hold his tongue and follow Tony toward the bathroom because he knows there’s no way he’s getting away with another snarky comment, not with the way his breathing sounds right now. They find a place off to the side near a set of pay phones and Peter rummages through his backpack with a heavy sigh. “Don’t half ass it, kid. Use your spacer,” he says when Peter pulls his Xopenex out, which earns him an eye roll.

He wants to argue that he doesn’t need it, but Peter shakes and uncaps the inhaler before inserting it into the slot of the spacer anyway, afraid that Tony will make him end the night early if he doesn’t comply. He presses down on the canister, careful to take one slow breath in and out, and then another, repeating the process before he packs everything up in his backpack and returns it to his back. Finally, he takes the water Tony’s holding out toward him and uncaps it to take a long sip.

“Better?”

“Actually, yeah,” Peter admits begrudgingly, capping the water and handing it back to Tony.

Tony gives small smile and ruffles Peter’s hair. “Still worried about you, Underoos.”

Peter looks down at the ground and bites his lip. “I know you’ve been checking in on me all day, with FRIDAY and Karen.”

“Just wanted you to have a good time,” Tony says. “Didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.”

“I know, I just…thought it’d be nice to be a normal kid for a day, you know? Turns out I can’t even do that right.” He feels tears press as he grips the straps of his backpack. The puffs he’s just taken are a reminder, and the frustration he’s been trying to hold back all day rises to the surface.

“Normal is overrated.”

There it is. Tony’s words hit deep, stir up the anger Peter’s been refusing to acknowledge. “You keep saying that but I don’t think it’s true, because all I want to do is be _me_, but I feel like I don’t even _know _who that is anymore! Not with all of this!” Peter hears his voice crack, has to swallow and hold his tears back because he really doesn’t want to cry at Disney. Not during the stupid _fireworks show_.

“You’re still the same Peter you’ve always been, kiddo.”

“That’s the thing, though, Tony. I’m _not me_ like this, even if everyone says that I am! I wish people would stop saying that! I’m…I’m not…me…” he tries to get out, but he’s sniffling, his tears betraying him and falling down his cheeks. “I’m _not_…”

“Woah, woah, what brought this on?” Tony’s asking, concerned, but Peter can only sob, can barely catch his breath because the tears won’t _stop_ and he can’t get his lungs to _expand_. It’s not his asthma this time, and he finds himself almost wishing that it _was_ because the pain sitting in his stomach and chest is soul-crushing. “Kiddo, talk to me. Take a deep breath.”

He’s shaking his head as Tony guides him to sit on a low brick ledge near some bushes. “I-I…can’t…I’m _not_…” Peter is saying as Tony removes his backpack. “I...”

“Gotta sit up,” Tony’s guiding, helping him to straighten his back through his tight wheezing. “You’re sending yourself into an attack, Peter.”

“I-I’m okay, I’m j-just n-not…okay okay?” He knows he’s making zero sense, but the right words just won’t come to him.

“Slow it down,” Tony coaches, referring to Peter’s breathing. “You’ve already got the inhaler in your system.”

“Not asthma,” Peter says, shaking his head as he presses his palms flat into his thighs, his elbows locked. He closes his eyes, pretends he’s blowing out a birthday candle. In for three, out for six. In for three, out for six. He tries to make his mind blank, is glad that Tony is giving him some space to breathe this out rather than enveloping him in a hug.

By the time his breathing has regulated, and he feels okay enough to open his eyes, he’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting there. The fireworks are still going in the background, the booming making him flinch. He feels dazed, exhausted all of a sudden, and he’s absolutely sure that this is _not_ how he wanted his first time at Disney to go.

“You wanna talk about it?” Tony offers quietly.

“I don’t know,” Peter answers honestly.

Tony scoots closer and lets out a slow breath. “You think taking your inhaler set your anxiety off? Is that why you didn’t want to take it?”

“Maybe.” Peter shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Has this happened before? After your inhaler?”

He’s wringing his hands, looking down at them as he bounces his right leg. “Yeah? And sometimes after I do a treatment?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were still having anxiety attacks?”

“Because I didn’t know these were anxiety attacks? I thought they were…just me not being able to handle all of this well.”

“You’re handling this just as well as anyone else would. Actually, I think you’ve been doing better than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

“I could be better at it.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Most people don’t break down into a puddle of tears at Disney.”

Tony sighs. “You’ve been through a lot, Peter. After I came back from Afghanistan, I had a lot of flashbacks and night terrors. It was really debilitating for me. It took Pepper a while to realize that I was having anxiety attacks. She’s the one who helped me see someone about my PTSD.”

“I don’t have PTSD,” Peter spits.

“Peter.”

“People who return from war or…or survive a terrorist attack have PTSD,” he argues. “Refugees and people who lose their home in a tornado have PTSD.”

“And sometimes, people who get really sick and have a life-threatening medical event, especially repeated ones, also have PTSD.”

“_I don’t have PTSD_.”

“Okay.”

Peter thinks for a moment. “You survived a terrorist attack, Tony. You’re…_allowed_ to have PTSD.”

_Ah_, Tony thinks. _There it is_. _Kid doesn’t think what he’s been through is bad enough to warrant the label. _“This has stolen your peace, Pete. _All of it._ The e-asthma, pneumonia, and anaphylaxis, the shots and treatments and inhalers and pills. It’s kept you from school, from your friends. From being Spiderman. It’s invaded every nook and cranny of your life, filling you with doubt and fear even during the most routine of tasks. Am I right?”

“Well, yeah, but you’re gonna tell me that you understand because Afghanistan did that to you, too, but…but you carry all of your shit well now.” He doesn't even care that he’s cursed, just needs to get it _out_.

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t _heavy, _Peter.”

“It does feel really heavy,” Peter admits, the tears returning. “All of the fucking time.”

“And when you do something that’s seemingly small, like take your inhaler, you find that you’re sometimes okay, but then other times, you’re suddenly not. And you don’t know why.”

“Y-yeah,” he says, sniffling as he looks up at Tony, confused but also comforted by the idea that someone _does _get it.

“That’s part of PTSD, kiddo.”

“H-how did you…”

“Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy, and support from Pepper and Happy, and everyone else.”

“B-but you’ve got it all figured out…y-you…you’re sick, too, and you run Stark Industries, and you’ve got all of those grants and the internship program-”

“I definitely _do not_ have this all figured out. I take it day-by-day, sometimes hour-to-hour or minute-to-minute. You’ve gotta give yourself grace, kiddo, and acknowledge when you’ve reached your limit or when you need to process. It’s okay to stop moving, to slow your brain down and sort yourself out. Doesn’t matter if it’s physical or mental. You can’t just expect yourself to bulldoze through life avoiding your symptoms or feelings.”

Peter gives a small laugh through his tears. “You do that all of the time, Tony.”

“_Some_ of the time. Gotta give me some credit, because I _do_ relax more than I used to. But you need to take that advice, too. You’ve got big dreams, Pete, but you’ve also got big limitations, and that’s okay. Seeking balance between those two things isn’t this perfect algorithm we imagine it to be. It’s messy and painful and it honestly sucks a lot of the time. You and I? We’re analytical. We like absolutes. But the stuff that we live with, that throws a wrench in even the most intricate plans. And it’s okay to break down when it feels like it isn’t okay. You’re allowed to feel like this is stealing things from you because it is. Remember MJ and her iteration of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle?”

“Chaos theory.”

“Essentially. People like us have to find a way to live in the uncertainty.”

“I don’t want to have to do that.”

“I know, kiddo. I don’t want you to have to either, but that’s where we’re at.”

Peter takes a breath and rubs his eyes, the two sitting for a moment as the fireworks continue. 

“How about we grab a Dole Whip and blow this popsicle stand?” Tony asks softly.

Peter’s feeling a little shattered, but he nods and slowly lifts off of the stone to follow Tony, who helps him put his backpack on. Usually, Peter would complain that he doesn’t need to be babied, or that he can do it himself, but he finds himself letting Tony wrap an arm around his shoulder and pull him close as they order Dole Whips. Despite the panic attack, he’s thinking that today was one of the best days he’s had. Hanging out with Tony, with no threat of work or Avengers business getting in the way, has meant the absolute world to him.

Like taking that first deep breath after a bad attack, today was _enough_ to get him through. Enough to keep him working for the next breath, even if it isn’t going to be easy. 

On the drive home, Tony has FRIDAY play _Big Hero 6_ on the dashboard display while they eat their Dole Whips. Peter fights to stay awake, can barely keep his eyes open, so Tony lets him skip his night treatment, lets him be the normal kid he wishes he could be for a short while, and mutes the movie so that the kid can get some sleep. He pulls Peter’s sweatshirt from his backpack and drapes it over him, thinks about how far the kid has come since this all dialed up to eleven at Christmas, how damn proud he is of him.

It’s all May, and Ben, Tony knows, but he likes to think that their time together has had as much of a positive effect on Peter as it has on Tony.

If you had asked him a year ago what his life would look now, he’d never have imagined late nights in the lab with Peter, Tony eager to share his love for microwaving grapes to create plasma, or answering to FRIDAY’s calls about his kid’s nightmares and asthma attacks.

Peter isn't his kid, but he’s the closest thing he’ll probably ever have to his own, and he wants to do this right. Even exhausted and preoccupied with his own health stuff, Tony wants to get this right.

For Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Books are sometimes windows, offering views of worlds that may be real or imagined, familiar or strange. These windows are also sliding glass doors, and readers have only to walk through in imagination to become part of whatever world has been created and recreated by the author. When lighting conditions are just right, however, a window can also be a mirror. Literature transforms human experience and reflects it back to us, and in that reflection we can see our own lives and experiences as part of the larger human experience. Reading, then, becomes a means of self-affirmation, and readers often seek their mirrors in books" (Bishop, 1990).
> 
> Has this story been a window, sliding glass door, or maybe a mirror for you? None? A combination? Just curious.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter and Chag Pesach Sameach to all those celebrating!

**Chapter 23  
Tuesday, March 3**

Peter isn’t expecting the entire Avengers team to be gathered around the kitchen island and overflowing into the dining room when he gets home from school after decathlon practice, but there they are, discussing the briefing they’ve just received for a mission.

“What’s going on?” Peter asks, moving out of the way when a hurried Clint squeezes between him and Tony. “When did everyone–”

“Ever hear of the Manhattan Project?” Tony sips from a cup of black coffee while his eyes scan the StarkPad in his hand.

“Is that supposed to be a trick question?” Peter asks, throwing his backpack down.

“There’s an 8-alarm warehouse fire in Chelsea,” Tony explains, watching the confusion grow on Peter’s face. He puts his coffee down and a hand up to stop Peter from unleashing his usual series of rapid-fire questions. “It’s right where the Manhattan project stored their uranium. Apparently, there’s more residual uranium than was removed in the 1990s in a sealed bunker beneath the building, but with it on fire, there’s the threat of an explosion. The firemen can’t get anywhere near it right now. That’s where we come in.”

Peter’s face lights up. “Awesome! What’s the plan? When do we suit up?”

“No,” Tony says, shaking his head. “You know that I can’t let you go, Peter.”

“B-but I’m swinging again, the meds are working! Even Bruce said–”

“That you still need to avoid triggers and smoke is _100%_ a trigger.”

“My suit can withstand the smoke and radiation, though! I went to _space_!”

“There’s the threat of an explosion, one that could be big enough to blow a hole in lower Midtown. So go ahead and hate me for this, but you’re not coming this time. End of story.”

“Tony, _please_!” he begs, desperation in his eyes. “I _need_ this! You know how hard it’s been–”

“_No!_ There will be other times, Peter. Other missions. And Bruce is staying home, too. He can’t be near the radiation or he’ll…you know.” He notices how Tony uses the word _home_ rather than _behind_, goes back to his StarkPad and walks away without another word.

Peter tries to come up with something, anything, that will make Tony change his mind, but by the time he enters the kitchen, he realizes that everyone is scrambling to leave.

Without him.

“I linked your comms,” Bruce says, handing Peter his StarkPad. “Think you can help me keep track of everyone on the map?”

Peter nods, feeling numb, tries to breathe away the disappointment not in Tony for not letting him go, but in himself for not being able to.

x

“Tony, you just dropped 500 feet,” Natasha asks. “That recovery was _shit_. Everything okay?”

“Language,” Steve interjects.

“Reactor’s glitching,” Tony mutters, attempting to catch his breath.

Bruce cuts in. “You should get back to the Tower while you still have power, Tony. We can run diagnostics.”

“No, I’m good. I’m good,” he lies between gritted teeth. The reactor surges and pain shoots through his chest, which makes him lose his breath. “I’m not good,” he whispers.

_“You’ve never seen me when my heart goes into an arrhythmia,” _plays in Peter’s mind as he listens form the living room couch on his StarkPad. He sits up, back straight and heart pounding.

“You’re having an arrhythmia,” Bruce explains. “Have FRIDAY bring you home before your suit’s useless.”

“Where’s Thor?” Natasha asks. “Can he get it back into a normal rhythm with his hammer?”

“Sure, Natasha,” Clint chides. “Let’s just use an electrical current in a mystical hammer from another freaking planet in the middle of a fire with highly explosive uranium nearby. Fantastic plan!”

Bruce’s signature sigh comes through and Peter imagines him peeling his glasses from his face in the other room. “You need to rest, Tony.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

Steve’s voice booms as he says, “Tony, you need to stand down. Get back to the Tower. That’s an order!”

“You’re not the boss of me, _I am_, and my suit can withstand more radiation than all of you combined if this thing blows. I’m going back in.”

“The fire is nearly out, Tones,” Rhodey argues. “Let it go. Your team has it under control.”

“Rhodey?” Tony asks, surprised. “Who called you in?”

“The President. And Steve’s right. You need to stand down before you get yourself killed!”

Tony grabs two barrels of compound and positions himself directly above the remaining flames.

“You stubborn ass motherfucker!” Rhodey shouts as he dives for his friend. “Gonna get us all killed with your narcissism!”

Peter has to do something. He watches in horror as Tony’s reactor power indicator on his screen blinks in and out, losing masses of energy each time it’s off of the screen for more than three seconds. “FRIDAY?” he asks. “How long until Tony’s suit reaches 10%?”

“About 10 minutes, Mr. Parker. But that’s only an estimate based on…” she drones, and Peter knows exactly what he needs to do.

x

“Sir, you’re at less than 10% capacity. I cannot guarantee full functions of the suit if you choose to continue,” FRIDAY warns before his screen blinks out.

Tony feels himself falling the 1,000 feet, stares up at the sky as his body whooshes between the thick, black smoke gathered between two skyscrapers. He closes his eyes to prepare himself for the inevitable _clunk_ of his suit on the pavement and subsequent darkness, is surprised when he makes contact with a stretchy, net-like material that leaves him bobbing up and down.

A quick glance over, and he can see that it’s webbing with a tensile strength just high enough to hold his suit up.

_Peter_.

He’s relieved until he hears the sound of brick cracking and metal straining, feels himself falling, and it’s not long before he’s on the ground with brick pinning him down, the sound of car alarms and sirens permeating his suit.

“Tony? We’re gonna get you out of there, just…hold on, okay?” Steve says through the comms.

He wants to answer, but his reactor is continuing to malfunction, heartbeat is irregular, and the strain on his body and suit are nearly too much. He’s panting, trying to claw his way out of the pile even though he knows it’s over.

And he needs to know that Peter is okay, especially in this thick smoke.

God, he’s going to kill the kid if he survives this for even thinking that coming out despite his orders was acceptable.

He knows the fall would’ve left him with broken bones and one hell of a concussion, that his suit in its state wouldn’t have absorbed much of the shock. The webbing_, Peter’s webbing_, he realizes, is the only thing that’s kept him from weeks of casts and being bedridden in MedBay.

Steve’s face appears through the gap in the fallen brick. “Gonna get you out of here, Tony. Just give us a minute.”

“P-Peter?” he sputters, his breaths coming in short from his arrhythmia.

“I can see three heat signatures in that pile over there,” Rhodey announces out of Tony’s vision. “Gonna try and get them out. There’s no movement.”

“C-civilians?” Tony asks, Steve nodding as he pries chunk after chunk of brick away until he can pull Tony’s body from the rubble.

x

“I told you _no_,” Tony cries, real, angry tears streaming down his bloodied face as he and Peter sit in MedBay. They’re each on their own bed, Peter just having finished a breathing treatment, Tony waiting for Cho to return with bandages. “As your _guardian_, I told you no and you didn’t listen! I expect you to _listen to me_ because I’m responsible for you!” He spreads his arms out in disbelief. “What am I supposed to do, Peter, when members of my team, of my _family_, don’t follow orders and put themselves and everyone around them in harm’s way?!”

“M’sorry,” Peter is rasping through his tears as he wheezes. “Y-you–”

Tony points sharply at him from across beds. “I don’t want to hear _another _word out of you, you hear me?”

“B-but you weren’t okay! And I couldn’t–”

“And now I’ve gotta _fucking_ hear it!”

“I couldn’t keep listening to the comms, feeling powerless!”

“You _blatantly_ disobeyed direct orders and three civilians are in questionable condition right now, which means Spiderman is grounded until further notice!”

“Grounded?” Peter’s eyes go wide and his hands come up as if that’ll help him plead his case. “No, Tony, _please don’t_! I just got my powers back!”

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it, Pete! Not this time!”

“I d-don’t understand?” It feels like his heart is actually being ripped into pieces, and he can’t figure out what he’s done wrong, why Tony is so bitterly incensed. He knows his actions have gotten three innocent people hurt, that in his effort to do the right thing, it’s created more problems. But he also knows that Tony refused to stand down, that he put _himself_ in harm’s way, and _that_ fact makes Peter just as livid as Tony. “You’re the one who is always telling me to listen to my body!” Peter yells through his tears.” And then you go and you ignore your own, a-and now you’re mad at me because I saved your life?!”

“Saved my life?” Tony asks, getting up from his bed to walk toward Peter. “You’re a kid, Peter! _A kid_! You had _no idea_ what you were walking into this evening, had no business being there! And you didn’t save my life! All that _you_ did tonight was put yourself and other people in danger, and people got hurt because of your faulty logic! Innocent people, Peter! I’m taking the fall for it because I want to spare you from the backlash, but do _not_ think for a second that you and I are done discussing what this means going forward!”

“I was afraid that the fall would be f-fatal…and I didn’t...m-mean to mess anything up! I just wanted you safe! I wasn’t…” he sobs, tears sliding down over his lower lip as it trembles.

“Thinking?” Tony offers, and Peter’s heart truly and completely shatters.

“I did think about it!_ I did_!” he argues. “T-the façade, it...I couldn’t have known–”

“_Do not_ pretend you thought this through!” Tony warns, another finger lifted and pointed at Peter. “Just like when you fought the Vulture, and then when you hitched a ride to space! You _never_ listen or think anything through! You just go and do whatever you want and hope someone will be there to pick up the pieces when it’s all over, and I’m _done_ being that person, Peter! You never learn!”

And Peter wants to argue that all he ever does is _overthink everything_, that his need to fix what ails this crazy world is what keeps him up night after night and fills his soul with absolute dread, but he just bites his lip and looks down in shame. _I’m done being that person, Peter_, repeats, over and over, clear as a bell, in his head.

He climbs down from the bed without apology, grabs his backpack, and leaves the Tower.

x

Peter shows up on May’s doorstep an hour later.

“I’m coming!” she yells, and Peter hears her voice get louder as she asks, “Who is it?” There’s a split-second pause, and Peter assumes she’s looking through the peekhole, before she opens the door to Peter in a hoodie with his backpack, eyes red and swollen, face full of tear streaks down his cheeks.

“M-May,” he says, bites his lip, and as she pulls him into an immediate hug, he breaks down completely into a mess of sobs and wheezes.

“Shh. It’s okay, baby. Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay. God, you must be freezing in that hoodie. Let’s get you inside and warm you up,” she soothes, closing and locking the door behind them before pulling him onto the couch and helping him get his backpack off. “You’re covered in soot,” she comments, brushing ash from his hair. “Were you? Oh my God, Tony let you go to that fire in Chelsea?!” she asks, incredulous.

“No! No, _I _fucked up, May! I went after he told me no and people got hurt and n-now Tony’s…_furious_,” he sobs into her shoulder as she wraps a blanket around his shoulders. “We h-had a mission…and he said I c-couldn’t go…and h-he was having an arrhythmia and his suit…kept failing and I was listening in on the c-comms at the Tower,” he’s trying to explain as he shivers, his wheezing intensifying. “I made a net from my webs…and it caught h-him, like it…was s-supposed to, b-but Tony made the formula weaker so I could still shoot w-webs with my steroids and it pulled a brick façade d-down instead of…keeping things s-secure and there were three people in a car…and he _hates me_ now and…I think I j-just…_lost everything_?” The last bit comes out as high pitched before he lets out a few deep coughs that completely knock the wind out of him. He grips the couch to steady himself as May pulls his backpack into her lap and digs to find the small blue canvas bag with his inhalers and spacer. “Your inhaler in here, baby?”

He nods, struggles to get his breathing regulated. 

May’s head swims as she tries to figure out what’s just happened. Her baby is sitting before her, wheezing heavily and more upset than she’s seen him in months. She’s not sure what to make of the Tony situation, but she’ll figure that out later. First, she needs to get Peter’s awful wheeze under control. Her heart breaks as she shakes Peter’s inhaler, uncaps it, and connects it to the spacer to give him puffs of the medication.

“Slow,” she reminds him, rubbing his shoulder as he breathes in and out, in and out. “One more.” She presses down on the canister and sees the aerosol fill the chamber, watches Peter close his eyes as he takes in two more, slow shaky breaths. His face crumples the moment she takes the spacer away, his lips trembling as he breaks into tears. “I was afraid he was...gonna _die_, May. His reactor lost power and he…f-fell and I had to… save him…and then he told me three p-people got hurt, and I...I got people hurt! I didn’t mean to! I’d _never_ d-do that, I don’t…hurt people!”

“Oh, I know, baby. I know.” She pulls him close and lets him burrow his face into her shoulder. “He’s just angry right now, probably not even at you. It’ll pass.”

“Innocent people!”

“What, and Tony’s never done the same?” she asks, rubbing his back. “It comes with the job, honey. It’s bound to happen.”

“Wanna come home,” he cries.

It takes everything in her to say, “You don’t mean that.” She has a business trip coming up, one that will extend into the weekend, and she knows Peter can’t stay home alone for those four days. Not with the way he sounds right now.

“I-I do. He told me…told me he was _done _with me and that he wouldn’t be…picking up the pieces from my mistakes anymore...”

May’s taken aback. “_Done_ with you?! What in the world?”

“I don’t want to go back! He doesn’t want to…_see me_… I fucked everything up. I always…do. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” Peter sobs.

“Peter Benjamin Parker, you are _not_ a fuck-up!” May insists, lifting his chin up. “And I don’t give a _flying fuck_ what Tony Stark thinks, you do _not_ fuck everything up, baby!” She wipes the tears from under his eyes and brushes his curls from his face. “Everything, and I mean, _everything_, that you touch makes this world a better place, you hear me? You make this world such a better place, Peter. You are the furthest thing there is from a fuck-up. And I’m not just saying that as your aunt. I am _so_ proud of you! So fucking proud!”

Peter nods through his tears, even though he doesn’t believe her, wraps his arms around her small frame and squeezes as tightly as he can to try and undo the pain of Tony’s stinging words.

“Gonna get you a hot shower, breathing treatment, and to bed before that wheeze turns into bronchitis or pneumonia,” she soothes, brushing a hand through Peter’s curls to calm him and his breathing down.

The moment May tucks Peter into his bed, her cell phone rings.

It’s Pepper.

She’s frantic as she explains that she had no idea Peter had left the Tower, wants to make sure he’s safe and sound. “Tony’s in one of his moods again,” Pepper states, and May can hear the tremor in her voice, as if she, too, has just had it out with Tony. “I am _so sorry_, May! I would _never_ have let Peter just leave like that!”

“He’s safe,” May assures her, sitting down on her own bed and running a hand through her hair. She lets out a long exhale and tries to piece everything together as Pepper fills her in on the missing details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not usually one to write an entire story and post it all at the time of completion. I know that some people don't read fics unless they're completed. That's never really been my personal process or reading style, but I get it. I wrote the bones of the key scenes and filled in the gaps of _Air I Breathe_ as I went. It's what makes this fic a little messy, a little imperfect. I mostly wanted to get this out there before I chickened out, and I'm glad that I did it this way. It means so much to know that this fic, with all of its imperfections, has touched so many people. I hope you'll stick with me through the next few and last chapters, and maybe take a ride with me as I write and post my next fic about Peter with type one diabetes. Let me know what you think. :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24  
Wednesday, March 4**

“It’s only for a couple more weeks, okay?” May says, squeezing Peter in a tight hug. “Just until the end of the month. Then I’ll be home and you can come back for a little bit. We’ll get some Thai and binge-watch Netflix.”

“I’d like that,” Peter says, looking up with sad eyes. He knows he has to go back to Tony’s, that May’s got a flight to catch later today for a business trip. Steve has called her about a million times in the last 24 hours to reiterate that he knows asthma first-hand and can make sure that Peter’s okay while she’s on her trip, that Tony will come to his senses soon and apologize. She’s not entirely convinced, but she knows she can’t just stay home. “I just..._miss you_.” He goes into another round of tears, May rubbing his back as Happy pulls up in front of their apartment.

“I know, baby. I miss you, too.” She gives a small smile, kisses him on the forehead, and watches with tears in her own eyes as he climbs into the backseat of the SUV.

**Thursday, March 5**

Peter rests his forehead atop his forearms on the lunch table, is trying to block out the overwhelming noise of the cafeteria. His head pounds and his chest feels heavy, but a trip to the nurse three periods ago revealed no fever, so here he sits. 

The nurse, Shannon, offered to send him home, but Peter decided to suffer through this at school rather than at the Tower. _With Tony_.

“Are you having a sensory overload? You should go to the nurse,” Ned comments.

“M’fine,” Peter mumbles, feeling anything but.

MJ rubs his back and leans in close. “I can _feel_ your wheezing, Peter. You’re not fine.”

“Took my inhaler,” he mumbles. _Was that an hour ago? Two?_

“And it isn’t working,” MJ says. “You need the nurse.”

A coughing fit that nearly has him bringing lunch up is what sends Peter over the edge, has him giving in to MJ. She lets him lean on her, an arm around his shoulder, as she helps him to the nurse.

“Peter,” Shannon greets him when he enters the office. MJ signs him into the log book. “Chest still tight?” she asks.

“Yeah,” admits, rubbing it.

“Did you take any puffs?”

“Not yet,” he admits, a string of coughs escaping as the nurse leads him to a cot. She changes the paper and raises the back, brings a chair over for MJ.

“This your lunch period, MJ?” she asks, an eyebrow raising. “Or should I be sending you back to class?”

“It’s my lunch. I’ll go to class when the bell rings,” she promises.

“She can stay,” Peter adds before the nurse can question her being there. “For moral support. You know.”

“So you don’t barf again?” MJ asks, and Peter laughs, coughs again, which leaves him wheezier than before.

“A little warning would be nice next time,” the nurse jokes, looking Peter over. “You’re looking a little feverish,” she comments, digging into her nearby cart before clipping a pulse ox onto his finger and pulling a portable thermometer. She slips on a cover and slides it beneath Peter’s tongue. It beeps. “Hmm, no temp. Odd. But your pulse ox is only 95. You, my friend, get to go home. Are you with May or Tony right now?”

He closes his eyes, forces himself to mutter, “Tony,” because May is Nashville, will be home Saturday morning. Tony’s technically his closest legal guardian.

“Alright. I’ll call him and set up a treatment while we wait, okay?”

Peter nods and curls into himself on the cot as he coughs, MJ pulling her chair closer. She grabs for his hand. “Are you sure you want Tony to come and get you?”

“No, but…there’s no one else.”

“I can call my dad,” she offers.

“You’re not…calling your dad,” he argues, his wheezing growing deeper. “Can’t sign me out…anyway. Only May, Tony…Pepper, and Happy.”

x

“Hey, kid,” he hears Happy say from the doorway. “Feeling rough, huh? I already signed you out in the office, so we’re good to go.”

He turns from his place on the cot to look at him, notices that Tony’s not there, and sighs a slight breath of relief.

“He couldn’t get out of a big wig meeting, but he promised he’d come check on you after I got you settled at home.” 

He flinches at the word _home_. “Sure,” Peter finally mumbles, getting up from the cot as Happy grabs his backpack. They thank the nurse, head into the hallway, and walk out of the front doors.

As he pulls away from the curb, Happy jumps into conversation with, “He cares about you, Pete. He’s just dealing with some stuff, and he’s taking it out on you in true Tony fashion. He gets like this. Try not to take it personally.”

“How do you suppose…I do that?” Peter wheezes, side of his head against the window, eyes closed. “After what he said?”

“Give him some time. He’ll admit he was wrong.”

“This ever happen…to you?”

“Plenty of times.”

“How long?”

“Have we been friends?”

“Did it take?”

“Depended on what it was we were arguing about.”

“We’re not…arguing,” Peter says, the tickle in his throat forcing three forceful, barking coughs. He tries to stop the next one, sits up and leans forward, gives a slow, controlled huff to clear his throat, but it comes anyway, his hand squeezing his leg as he wheezes tightly between each successive one.

“Shit, kid, you okay?” Happy asks, pulling over, Peter nodding ‘yes’ as more coughs come, one after another, turning his face beet red as he tries to get his breathing to normalize and holds back the small bit of soup he’s managed at lunch.

This has been happening all day. He’d excused himself in math, and then again during study hall, is sure he maxed out his inhaler. But this shouldn’t be happening, not after so much Xopenex and then the Atrovent treatment in the nurse’s office. The Nucala has been in his system for _weeks_. He leans his head against the car window when he’s mostly sure his lungs are done and closes his eyes as he catches his breath. “I’m good.”

“You sure? You look really far from good, buddy,” Happy comments, his hand on Peter’s seat.

“Might need…another treatment…when we get back,” he whispers, refusing to open his eyes. He knows this is getting worse, is borderline critical, but Tony hasn’t texted him to check-in on him despite the notifications that must be popping up on his phone and Peter doesn’t want to be any more of a bother than he already is.

_Because that’s why he yelled at me the other day_, Peter thinks. _Because I get in the way. Because I make everything more complicated than it needs to be._

“Gonna get you home so Bruce can check you over,” Happy says, throwing the car into drive and pulling out onto the road. There it is again. _Home_. It doesn’t feel like home to Peter. Not anymore, anyway.

“Don’t need Bruce,” he croaks.

“Kid, you are _not_ dying on my watch, you hear? Tony’ll never forgive me.”

“S’that supposed to…be a joke?” Peter asks, wheezing. “Tony could give…two shits…about me.”

“He cares about you, kid, he’s just being Tony. A side of Tony you’re not using to seeing.”

Peter doesn’t answer, just sits up as straight as he can and focuses on breathing. The tightness growing in his chest has him just a tiny bit worried that this is going to get worse and he’s going to be alone in MedBay without Tony by his side, holding his hand.

Okay, so he’s actually _completely terrified_ to do this on his own, doesn’t know what to do about this awful attack that’s building and making him feel like he’s got cement in his lungs again. He’s wheezing on every inhale _and_ exhale, knows Bruce is going to give him that look of disappointment when he pulls up the data on how much medication Peter’s taken to try and fix this on his own without anyone knowing. He keeps his eyes closed and tries not to let Happy’s crazy driving make him carsick.

x

“You have a call from Bruce Banner, sir,” FRIDAY notifies Tony. “Should I play a busy signal?”

“No,” he says, sighing as he throws the hunk of metal in his hand down on the table. “If this is about my reactor, Bruce, you should just quit now while-”

“It’s Peter,” Bruce says, and Tony can hear Peter wheezing in the background, long, hollow wheezes between short coughing fits that make his stomach drop.

“FRIDAY!” he yells as he runs for the elevator. “Get me up there, double-time-”

“He doesn’t want to see you, Tony,” Bruce explains, but Tony ignores it, gets in the elevator anyway. “Please. I can’t have him getting any more worked up than he already is. He’s wheezy, but his oxygen levels are improving quickly. I’ve got him on an albuterol/Atrovent neb and oxygen, pushing fluids and steroids.”

“Albuterol sets his anxiety off,” he states as the elevator rises. “_Why would you give him that when you know_-”

Bruce sighs. “I can’t mix Xopenex and Atrovent, Tony. They incompatible. I don’t have much of a choice with this wheezing. I promise that it sounds worse than it is. He’s going to be fine once the IV steroids kick in. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Is this the attack that started at school?” Tony feels the guilt take hold in his stomach; he’d had Happy pick the kid up, told him to chalk Tony’s absence up to a big wig meeting when he was really downstairs in his lab, guzzling coffee and tinkering with the nanotech for a new reactor.

He still can’t get it right.

He was half-lying when he told Peter he could run his suit without his reactor. At this rate, he’ll be the man with the most technology that he can’t actually use once his reactor shits the bucket.

“Seems like he’s been having small exacerbations throughout the day. I took some blood to see if there’s anything infectious going on, but I think it’s just a virus. Lotta crap still going around this time of year.”

“He said he doesn’t want to see me? He’s talking?” Tony says, attempting to hide his sniffling.

“Steve brought him up, said it was all Peter could get out before the wheezing really set in. I’m gonna let you go so that I can run these labs, but I’ll update you in a few hours.”

As Tony nods, thanks Bruce, and disconnects the call, the tears hit. Hard. He has FRIDAY bring him back to the lab, asks her to dim the lights, and pulls up the video and audio feed of Peter’s bed in MedBay on his screen. He watches Steve hold Peter’s oxygen mask with a nebulizer reservoir attached against his face for a moment before Peter coughs heavily, pushes it away, and pukes into a basin. He drags in a congested breath and coughs again, long and deep, Steve replacing the mask and securing the elastic when he’s sure Peter’s isn’t going to puke again.

_I should have never said any of those things after the mission_, Tony thinks, shaking his head. He inhales a shaky breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. _They weren’t even true! I should be the one sitting there with him. Fuck._

“This…sucks,” Peter wheezes, pulling the white MedBay blanket over his shoulders.

“Tell me about it, kid. We didn’t even have medicine when I was your age, just waited the hours or days it took for it to pass.”

“Days?!” he asks from behind the mask, incredulous.

“If the asthma cigarettes didn’t kick in,” Steve says, chuckling.

“Asthma…cigarettes?! Isn’t that…an oxymoron?”

He shrugs. “Doctor’s orders..”

“Wow, that’s…nuts.”

“Is it getting any better?” Steve says, looking up at the machines as if he knows what all of the numbers mean. He’s new to this, to seeing _Peter_ like this, but the kid seems to be in good enough spirits despite the situation; Peter hadn’t flinched when Bruce inserted the IV in his left hand, nor did he complain when Brue stuck heart monitor patches on his chest and back, a blood pressure cuff on his right arm, and a pulse ox clip on his right index finger. There had been a brief argument over Peter refusing to put on a gown, but Bruce had given in in favor of getting his breathing treatment started, let him stay in his jeans and gray _actually, it is rocket science _NASA t-shirt.

“Still…hard to breathe,” he wheezes, rubbing his chest. “Not usually…like this…after two close treatments.”

“Being emotional always made my asthma worse.”

“M’not…_being emotional_.” He doesn’t try to hide his offense, not in his tone at least, but he can’t tell if Steve can see his expression behind his mask, so he pulls the blanket tight around his shoulders like a cape and hopes that sends the message.

Steve shifts in his chair. “You know what I mean, Pete. You should talk to him.”

“He made it clear…that he’s done. I can’t make people…want to be in my life. Seems like…everyone’s…always leaving, so…” he trails, catching his breath as he tries not to get too emotional. The blood pressure cuff begins to inflate. “It’s fine. It’s…my fault anyway. I always…”

“Try and do the right thing, kid. You always do, and that’s why you’re such a great asset to our team.”

“Some asset,” Peter huffs, lifting his arms to showcase all of the tubing and wires.

“Hey, doing what’s right is important, even if you pay for it later,” Steve argues softly. “That’s a true sacrifice. It counts for something.”

“Does it, though?” Peter asks, and Steve isn’t ready to see the kid’s eyes filled with tears.

“It always counts, even if people convince you it’s uncountable,” he affirms. “Hell, it counts for more than anything that’s countable.”

“Language,” Peter says with a laugh through his tears, and Steve gives him a smile back.

“I owe you an apology, Peter,” Steve admits. “I know I was a bit condescending with my Christmas speech, when I went off about challenges making people better? That wasn’t fair to you and I’m sorry. You were good before all of this. You had to have been to be the kid you are now. I know I made it sound like you deserved this, which you don’t. No one does. I’ve been in your shoes and I know how hard it is. I’ve had a few close ones and it’s been a long time, but you never forget, you know? It’s just…been on my mind for a while now, since the gala, and I wanted to make sure it got to you.”

“Thanks,” Peter replies, his cheeks burning, because did Captain America just _apologize to him_?

“You did the right thing by going out there the other night. And I know by the look on your face that you think I’m the last person who’d ever say that to you, but I know why you did it, kid. Powers or not, I would’ve tried to do it, too.”

“B-but wat if…the right thing ends up being the…w-wrong thing?” He sniffles.

“If I’ve learned anything in all of the years that I’ve known Tony Stark, it’s that he does this when he thinks he can’t protect the people he loves. When he thinks he’s got nothing good left to give. Tony keeps a lot to himself, even from Pepper and you. He thinks he’s protecting you in doing this.”

“That sounds…wildly abusive,” Peter argues.

“Oh, it is,” Steve answers, giving a nod in acknowledgement. “Don’t get me wrong, what Tony did to you, _said_ to you, was unacceptable. But you just wondered it aloud yourself: What if what you think is the right thing in the moment ends up being the wrong thing?”

Peter feels the pain of the confrontation the other day flood his system, but he thinks, somewhere deep inside him, he can try and make a little sense of what Steve is trying to say.

“It’ll get better,” Steve offers, Peter’s blood pressure cuff inflating on his arm.

“The asthma?”

“Probably, but I meant the stuff with Tony,” Steve says, giving him a genuine smile.

“It could also get worse,” Peter reasons, dragging in slow breaths of the medication from the mask.

“He’ll apologize when he’s got his head on straight again.”

Peter gives a small laugh, but tinged with sadness. “Not sure I’m ready to accept it.”

x

Tonight, Peter’s chest feels heavy. _Full_. He can _feel_ his chest crackle with every inhale and exhale, debates a few puffs _and_ a treatment. He’s just attempted chemistry homework but given up, his brain and lungs too tired for both thinking and breathing. He just wants to stay in the little ball he’s formed on his bed and fall asleep, forget everything he’s supposed to do and everything going on in his life. He closes his eyes, promises himself he’ll only sleep for a little while and _then_ handle the crackling, lets himself drift off.

“Peter?” Tony’s soft voice wakes him sometime later, Peter coming to slowly. He rubs his chest, his inhales and exhales crackling louder than before. The room is dark until Tony switches Peter’s bedside lamp on, the brightness blinding the teen. “How long have you been like this?”

“M’fine,” he groans, turning away from Tony. “Don’t need your help.”

“Your lungs sound like they’re full of water,” Tony notes, ignoring Peter’s words and helping him sit up. Peter tries to protest, but his body is too weak, brain is too fuzzy to coordinate his movements. He finds himself leaning into Tony’s embrace, tries not to cry. He doesn't want to admit it, because his argument with Tony has come flooding back, nasty emotions and all, but he can feel the fear at not being able to breathe well building, has an inkling that he might be spending the night in MedBay if they can’t get this under control here.

By the time Tony’s set up a treatment, Peter’s airways feel as if they are half as open as they were before, and he can now feel whatever’s inside moving as he tries to breathe. He sits hunched, eyes closed, and works to pull any air that he can in.

Tony wordlessly secures the oxygen beneath his nose, helps him into the vest that shakes the mucus loose, and connects the tubing to the machine. Tony doesn’t need to look at his watch to see that Peter’s oxygen level is low, doesn’t need to steal a glance at Peter’s pale face and red cheeks to know that this isn’t good. The very fact that Tony’s forced the vest on Peter without any pushback says everything they both need to know. Peter can barely process his emotions and thoughts as the vest shakes against his chest and moves the mucus, can only focus on trying to breathe and coughing up thick, green gunk into the tissues Tony’s holding in one hand, nebulizer mouthpiece in the other, between breaths of the medication. He hates having to do this, hates that Tony is here, wants to lean over and press the off button on both machines because _this fucking hurts_ with his lungs feeling so sore and full, but he holds back, listens as Tony encourages him with the same, gentle remarks he always makes over the buzzing of the machines: _Good, kiddo. Deep breaths. You’re doing great._

He does it even though he and Tony haven’t talked about what happened the other day, even though he’s beyond angry, because he’s _terrified_ of drowning. Because this came on so suddenly and he doesn’t understand _why_.

It feels a lot like nearly drowning.

Like _almost dying_.

_That’s_ why he’s closing his eyes, taking deep breaths from the nebulizer mouthpiece, letting the vest go through its cycles and pound at his tired, mucus-filled lungs.

When Peter’s nebulizer runs dry, Tony turns both machines off and helps Peter out of the vest before propping him up against his pillows to help him breathe easier. He adjusts the oxygen and puts the back of his hand to the teen’s forehead, checking his watch to confirm what he already knows: _No fever_.

It doesn’t make sense.

Not after Peter had gotten so sick at school.

Not after his stint in MedBay this afternoon.

Not with his lungs so _murky_ despite the treatment and vest machine.

Tony can’t make sense of it, and he can’t stop feeling that something isn’t right.

It sticks with him he sits at the kitchen island going through emails, Peter’s vitals up on an extra StarkPad he’s got beside him, and again while brushing his teeth at two in the morning. It’s the only thing on his mind as he slips into bed, one last check on his StarkPad showing no temperature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few chapters left! Thank you for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! :)
> 
> Any favorite lines in this chapter?


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25  
Friday, March 6**

“No! _No_!” Peter’s chilling screams echo through the residence, but Tony’s already halfway down the hallway, his bare feet pounding against the wood flooring, Pepper following behind him. FRIDAY had woken them just before Peter had started screaming, alerted them to Peter’s falling oxygen level and sudden high fever. He flicks the lights on and finds Peter in a ball beneath his duvet, face and body twisting in anguish. “Uncle Ben! Please don’t go, please don’t go! You can’t go! _You can’t!_”

“Peter,” Tony’s cooing, pulling the blankets away as he tries to wake him and sit him upright. He can hear the struggle in the kid’s lungs, feels the warmth and dampness of his t-shirt. His hair is wet with sweat and is matted and wild against his forehead, oxygen off and buried beneath the blankets. “Pepper, get a wet washcloth! He’s burning up!”

“Uncle Ben!” Peter’s screaming as he looks at Tony with wide and glassy eyes.

“Shh,” Tony comforts as he rests him against the pillows, “It’s me, Peter. You’re okay. I need you to try and relax for me.”

“T-tony?” Peter asks, voice shaking with confusion.

“Right here, Underoos. You had a nightmare. You’re okay.”

“Don’t feel good.” His breaths are hitching, airways straining.

“Your oxygen level dropped. FRIDAY says you have a high fever.” Tony grabs the oxygen and adjusts it beneath Peter’s nose and around his ears, brushes his hair so that it’s out of his face. “Slow breaths.”

“Everything hurts.”

“Think you can do two puffs for me?” Tony asks, pulling Peter’s inhaler and spacer from his nightstand. He’s afraid that with Peter in his current state, the nebulizer might cause him to panic. “Two puffs, three breaths each.” He manages to get the teen to follow his directions, though he isn’t sure the medication ends up helping much with the wheezing.

That’s when Tony’s chest squeezes. He doubles over and forms his hands into fists to handle the pain, breathes through gritted teeth and hopes that it passes. After a few deep breaths it does, the adrenaline kicking back in.

Pepper returns with two washcloths. She gently lifts Peter’s head and places the first one at the base of his neck before draping the second one across his forehead.

“Peter’s temperature is currently 104.4,” FRIDAY relays. “Would you like me to contact Dr. Banner? I believe this qualifies for our Sepsis Protocol, sir.”

“W-where’s May? And Uncle Ben?” Peter asks, shivering under the coolness of the cloths.

Tony and Pepper exchange worried glances.

“Yes, FRIDAY! Tell Bruce to meet us in MedBay! Get any other available staff there! Tell them it’s urgent!”

“Of course, sir. Would you like me to contact May Parker?”

“I’ll call her,” Pepper insists, her eyes locking with Tony’s for an extra beat.

“W-where are we going?” Peter asks as Tony cradles him in his arms in the elevator, Pepper following with his oxygen. “Where’s May? Ben! Ben?! _Help me_!”

He tries to speak again, but suddenly, he can’t get air, feels like he’s falling. He hears Tony talking to him, but is having a hard time seeing, hearing. There’s air whooshing past them, but he can’t get much of it in, is having the apnea spells that happened when he had his allergic reaction.

The wheezes coming from Peter’s chest on every extended, forceful inhale on their way to MedBay are enough to crack Tony’s tough exterior fully and completely. Tony’s never heard such a terrifying sound, didn’t think it was possible for something so horrid to come from Peter’s lungs, but it is and he’s _praying_.

For the first time in his life, Tony Stark is sobbing and praying to whatever God will listen to _make it stop_.

And then the thought that _he’s_ caused this hits him, that Tony’s refusal to return to the Tower and Peter coming to catch his fall, exposing himself to the smoke, is why the kid is looking up at him with that same look as the morning he said he was drowning.

“Stay with me, Pete. I’ve got you.” Tony attempts to breathe away a sob and fails, adjusts his hold on Peter who is slipping from his grip with his full-body attempts at air.

And when there’s silence, he looks up, sees that Peter’s still throwing his entire body into getting a breath but that none will come. Tony feels a searing pain rush through his heart, doesn’t want to let go of Peter when they get to MedBay where Bruce is waiting with a bed and a team, but he has to in order to keep the feeling that his chest is splitting open from getting any worse. He has every intention of following Peter’s bed down the hall, _is _following him down the hall and almost has his hand to Peter’s, when his chest suddenly feels as if it’s being ripped in two, his legs buckling beneath him.

**Tuesday, March 10**

“Hey baby,” May coos as Peter comes to. He can see how red and swollen her eyes and face are, like she’s been crying for days. She rubs her thumb over his hand and moves in to kiss him on the cheek. He can feel that something’s helping him breathe, assumes it’s the BiPap cannula again, can see the stand beside his bed full of lines and stickers marking the various medications. His throat is raw, head is throbbing, and his lungs feel wrung-out.

He goes to speak and realizes he can’t. Alarm bells sound as his heart rate increases and panic fills his chest.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re on a ventilator, Peter,” May explains, brushing the hair from his forehead. He can suddenly sense the tube down his throat, how it’s inflating and deflating his chest.

The last thing he remembers is being in Tony’s arms.

_Tony._

He goes to speak again, remembers he can’t. Tears slide down his cheeks, May biting her lip as she fights to hold back her own.

“Relax, baby. You’re okay. Just need a little help breathing right now. It’ll come out soon.”

As much as he hates the ventilator, knows that things with his health are serious, he’s more worried about Tony.

He can’t get the image of Tony gritting in pain out of his head.

He reaches a hand out, tries to spell his name out on the bed.

“Tony?” May asks, her face twisting, the tears finally falling. “Oh, baby,” she whispers, looking down at him with sadness. 

_No, _Peter thinks, his hand gripping the blanket at the thought that something’s happened to Tony, machines continuing to alarm. _No!_

_His heart. His reactor._

“Gotta calm down, Pete,” Bruce says as he walks in the room and turns the alarms on the monitors off. “Tony’s okay, but he’s recovering from a pretty invasive surgery. His reactor was overdue for a tune up and the stress finally caught up to him. A heart attack, but we caught it early. He’ll be out of commission for a little while, but in the last few days, he’s done remarkably well, considering.”

Peter’s eyes widen at the mention of days passed.

“Three days, to be exact,” Bruce answers slowly.

_I slept through three whole days?!_ Peter thinks.

Bruce takes his glasses off and sits beside Peter on the bed. “You’ve been very sick, Pete. The swelling and fluid from the smoke inhalation exacerbated your asthma. With the Nucala compromising your immune system, an infection took hold. Sometimes people with smoke inhalation seem okay and then they take a sudden turn. That’s probably why, in your case, there was a delay. We had to sedate you and help you breathe, give your healing factor time to kick in along with the medications, but you should be okay once we get the infection under control.”

Peter feels like he’s falling again, feels the panic rise in his throat.

They never discussed the possibility of having to be placed on a ventilator in any of his appointments, but Peter’s always kept the thought in the back of his mind, especially after the shrimp incident, filed it away for extreme situations that would probably never happen.

Only it _has_ happened.

Peter looks over at May, watches her sniffle, and he can see in the way her facial muscles are working that she’s trying to keep it together. For him.

Always everything for Peter.

Never for May.

He hates himself.

He’s fucked everything up. _Everything_.

And he can’t even _cry_ properly in response.

Tony’s stress and heart attack? His fault. The fact that he’s so sick and May had to come running, once again? His fault.

_Why can’t I get anything right?_

“Peter,” Tony whispers in the doorway. It’s hard for Peter to see him, but once Tony takes a few shaky steps, he can see that he’s in a gown and pulling an IV cart behind him. He’s thinner, somehow, moves so slowly that Peter can trace every measly step with his eyes.

“You should be in bed,” Bruce is warning him, but he helps him into the room anyway, May offering her chair at Peter’s bedside for him. She’s still angry with him for the things he’s said to Peter, but she does this _for_ Peter, to give him something to keep him holding on.

“Underoos,” Tony sobs, looking Peter over and shaking his head as he squeezes Peter’s hand. “I did this! I did this and I’m so sorry! You...you didn’t deserve this, kiddo.”

Peter wants to tell him, “No, this isn’t your fault, it’s mine! I did this!” but he can only look back at Tony with apologetic eyes. _He’s_ the one that didn’t stay behind, after all, the one who ran right into the smoke instead of turning away like he knows he should have. “Trying to do the right thing always ends up being the wrong thing and I don’t know what to do,” he wants to sob, but he can’t. _Why can’t I stop doing these things and fucking everything up? Why can’t I just listen?_ The tears weave their way down his face, the machine speaking for him.

“This is my mess,” Tony’s admitting, wrapping a second hand around Peter’s. “I-I chastised _you_ for my own selfishness after you put yourself in danger to save _my_ life. You didn’t even question, you just did it because you knew I wasn’t okay! You _knew_, and then I...I _skip out _on making sure you’re okay after you got so sick at school, as if my being there for you is some kind of choice to be made. I’m supposed to be your mentor, your _guardian_, and I _didn’t show up_!”

Tony thinks about the phone call from the nurse, how her voice was laced with panic when she shared that his oxygen levels were falling below 95 and that he was wheezing terribly. He _knows_ Peter, has seen him in that exact state more than enough times to know how sick he truly had to have been to even have set foot in the nurse’s office to begin with. 

Peter wants to argue that Tony showed up later that night when he was drowning in his own lungs, pep talked him through the hardest vest and breathing treatment of his life, and carried him here when things turned scary. He wants to apologize for not listening to the orders meant to keep him safe, for being selfish enough to run straight into this mess without thinking–

“God, _you could have died_, and that would be on me! It would be all my fault and there’d be nothing I could do to undo it!”

He wants to remind him that he’s here, breathing, but it’s not enough because it’s not on his own, coming from his own lips. “I’m so sorry, Peter. I should have never let this happen!”

“Tony, I think this is too much for both of you,” May steps in, a hand on his shoulder.

Tony nods despite the urge to keep going, to keep apologizing until things are right again. Peter is so pale, looks helpless in a way Tony could never have imagined him. Even during his worst attacks, he thinks, Peter is so profoundly Peter with his comments and incessant need to always be moving. But this, this stillness, is a reminder of all that has happened. Some parts of this, he realizes, he cannot fix, and that is something he will have to live with always. He knows, too, that Peter still blames himself for everything that’s happened. Because Tony is Peter’s mentor and guardian. Because even though Peter knows Tony isn’t perfect and calls him out on his shit, he nevertheless wants to prove that he can be just like him, just as fast and strong and _smart_.

Only Peter has always been all of those things to Tony, even in his most imperfect moments, refuses to even see them in himself _because of_ Tony.

He rises from the chair, but instead of following Bruce’s pull toward the door, he leans in close to kiss Peter on the forehead. “You are so much stronger than I could ever be, Underoos. You hear me?” There’s not an ounce of anger in his words, just tears and all of the love he wishes he’d given instead of the vitriol he’d spewed after the mission that landed them here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! Did this chapter make you sob as hard as it made me while writing it? I think I broke my own heart!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe how much love I've received while writing this fic! I started it a year ago and finally reached chapter 26 with over 26,000 hits. Thank you, everyone, for all of the love and kind comments. They've meant the world to me!
> 
> I'd also like to give a shout out to the lovely Shoyzz-Art for creating a beautiful piece of art of this story! I honestly cried when it was complete! Please give her some love on her Tumblr.

**ONE MONTH LATER**

**Monday, April 6**

Things feel normal.

Normal-_ish_.

As normal as they could be after being intubated, Peter guesses.

He’s back to school. Decathlon. Internship. Patrols. The Avengers.

But there’s also the treatments, inhalers, steroids, and appointments. The things that let him do the things from Before, make him feel Peter-_ish_.

He’s still not convinced he’ll ever be fully used to this.

Sure, he’s in a routine now, but that hasn’t exactly made it easier.

He’d had to hold back tears a few minutes ago when FRIDAY sent him an orange zone alert for wheezing and dropping oxygen levels.

So much for feeling proud to be back to team trainings, the ones Tony isn’t even back to yet since his surgery.

There’s a knock at Peter’s door a moment before it opens. “Just checking in,” Tony says.

“I’m okay,” Peter assures him, holding his nebulizer mouthpiece up before flipping the ‘on’ switch. “Was just about to start on…some chem homework. My lungs have…shitty timing.”

“FRIDAY has you in the orange zone,” Tony explains, holding his phone up.

“I know. Got the same alert.”

“You want company?” Tony asks, and Peter can tell that he’s itching to make sure Peter is actually as okay as he says he is.

Peter doesn’t want to admit it, because this isn’t anything like being in MedBay or the nightmare that was being on a ventilator, but that orange alert has his heart pounding. He wonders if FRIDAY’s registered it yet, if Tony’s gotten an alert for that, too. He hadn’t felt tight or wheezy at first, since he’d been working on an essay and was distracted, but after the alert had popped up, he’d felt it, struggled to get across the room and fumbled with a box of nebules to get a new pack out.

“Y-yeah,” he says, putting the mouthpiece between his lips.

“Been getting a real kick out of your Spiderman Instagram posts,” Tony says with a smile as he takes a seat beside Peter on the bed.

Peter nods, closes his eyes because the medicine isn’t working yet and his heart is still racing from the unexpected alert. Tony’s just trying to change the subject, and Peter wants to appreciate it, but he’d rather his lungs weren’t doing their thing right now.

“I think it’s really great that you’re taking the time to post pictures about Spiderman living with asthma to encourage other kids, make them feel less alone in all of this. I know it’s not easy to put it out there.”

Peter nods again, eyes still closed.

“You’re not okay. I can tell.”

“I…I just thought things would be…better by now. Like…Steve called me a warrior during team training earlier, but I’m…I’m not winning this?”

“Can I let you in on a secret?” Tony asks softly, a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter takes a deep breath of the medicine and nods.

“Not everything can be won, Underoos.”

And Peter’s known that this whole time, has been fighting against his asthma with the hope that if he does everything he’s supposed to, it will become a little less intense, a lot more manageable, but here he is, constantly assessing and reevaluating his next move to take deeper breaths, lessen the wheezing, keep FRIDAY from alerting like she just did.

He’s tired but he keeps on running, pushes until he’s out cold, dreaming of someone, _anyone_, acknowledging how hard this actually fucking is. How hard it will probably always be.

“We do what we can and then we rest, just like you are right now.”

This doesn’t feel like resting.

It feels like defeat.

Like his lungs are going to be tight for hours, maybe days. Like the start of a flare.

It’s technically spring, even if it’s still chilly in New York.

He has homework to finish, was going to FaceTime with MJ before bed. There’s definitely no energy left for any of that now. The medicine barely feels like it’s working. His whole body feels heavy.

“H-have homework,” he whispers, as if that’s the most important thing right now, as if this is a minor inconvenience and not something that might mean a trip to MedBay or an urgent appointment tomorrow with Bruce and Cho.

“You don’t need to deflect with me, kiddo. You know that.”

“Don’t wanna slow down, but I…I don’t think I…have a choice…”

Tony sighs, squeezes Peter’s shoulder. “It’s hard to accept that, isn’t it? I think most days I’m still fighting against that fact myself.”

“It’s gonna be like this…all of the time.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a statement.

It’s Peter saying it out loud, acknowledging it. 

Letting it sink in.

He doesn’t cry even though he wants to.

“Maybe not all of the time, but yes, sometimes it’s gonna be like this,” Tony says, Peter leaning into his shoulder.

“Didn’t want to admit that. Was scared that…that if I did, it’d never go away. But it’s not…going away…”

“It’s okay to say that it’s a part of you, a part of your life,” Tony says, rubbing Peter’s shoulder. “Hell, I unintentionally made a whole superhero out of my health crap.”

Peter chuckles, because, yes, that’s _exactly_ what Tony did. Merged his love of science and tech with the worst thing that ever happened to him.

It’s like...like looking at a glimpse of what his own future could be, possibilities for finding ways to live with this _as_ a superhero.

He thinks back to lying in bed with MJ two weekends ago, how he still needed oxygen. She’d brought over a book called _Carve the Mark_ by Veronica Roth for them to read together.

“You’ve already read it, though,” he’d argued.

“Which is how I know it’s good and that you might like it.”

“Is this meant to be…inspiring?” he’d asked. There was attitude in his tone, one he wasn’t expecting to come out; he’d read the synopsis online and wasn’t in the mood for _The Fault in Our Stars 2.0_.

“Not inspiring, no. Maybe it’ll resonate, though? Can I read just a little bit and then you can tell me if you want me to stop or not? I really think you might find something you like in this, but I don’t want to force it,” she’d said.

Peter had closed his eyes and nodded for her continue not because he wanted to listen, but because he was growing too tired to argue.

“Do you know I have to set alarms to eat and drink? And check myself constantly for broken bones and bruises,” he says to Cyra. “It’s exhausting, paying this much attention to your body.”

“Is…is this a book?” Peter’s eyes opening.

MJ nodded. “I’ve been reading, trying to understand as much as I could about what you were going through and I found this book. I actually liked some of the literary analysis.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Oh, so now you guess it’s not so bad?” she’d teased, kissing him on the cheek.  


Peter had leaned into her, asked her to start from the beginning because yes, the book was resonating, was making him feel like he was worth something even propped up in bed with oxygen, and he hadn’t felt that in a while.

“Kid?” Tony asks, bringing him back to the present. “Is it getting any better?”

Peter comes to, realizes he’s been banking on this getting better, on getting it completely under control.

_Remission._  
  
It’s not off the table, could happen, but right now it’s _not_, and Peter’s not exactly okay with the fact that this is where he is, not really, but he still has to figure out what to do while he’s waiting for it to maybe happen, while he’s doing treatments and making sure he’s doing as well as he can be to be Spiderman.

To be Peter.

“Yes and no.”

Tony nods. “I get that, I do. We just have to do things differently. Live with the yes and no.”

And even though so much has happened in the last five months, and even though Peter feels like absolute crap and will probably need to do an Atrovent treatment before school in the morning, he feels a little more settled than he’s expected.

It’s grief and joy at the same time.

It’s weird, but it’s what he thinks Tony’s been trying to show him.

That you can hold the two side-by-side, that that’s what being chronically ill is actually like.

It’s not some inspiring story or thing that goes away when it’s convenient.

It’s the in-between, the ups and downs, the yes and no altogether.

It’s accepting and fighting at the same time, which is exhausting, but also empowering sometimes.

“Oxygen’s coming back up,” Tony comments, rubbing Peter’s back. “You sound a little congested, though. You want the vest?”

Peter nods, because even though he despises it and would really rather not do it, he knows it’ll help. He’s used to doing things he doesn’t want to for small semblances of relief and his brain is telling him that he should do it because his lungs don’t feel so great and Tony’s here, so at least he won’t be all alone. While Tony sets him up and refills the nebulizer, Peter sends off a quick text to MJ to reschedule their FaceTime. He plans on attempting to finish his homework tomorrow at breakfast, the subway, or lunch if he’s well enough to go to school. It’s not important right now, not really, but his brain is already plodding ahead, making plans. It’s weird how his two worlds collide so easily now, become one, especially when his lungs do their thing.

With his nebulizer going a second time and the vest shaking his whole body, Peter reaches over to grab two video game controllers from his nightstand. He hands one to Tony and uses his watch to turn on his TV.

“You want me to stay?” Tony asks, taking it.

Peter nods, smiling around the mouthpiece.

Music plays as the game loads. “Mario Kart?” Tony asks, laughing. “You got it, kiddo.”

Peter leans back against his pillows, Tony joining him, the two laughing over the sound of the nebulizer and buzzing vest as they play round after round.

It’s in the middle of a Rainbow Road race with Tony throwing banana after banana to throw him off that Peter realizes something important.

We don’t do things in spite of our chronic illnesses.

We do things _with_ them.

A few months ago, that thought would’ve broken him, fully and completely.

But right now, in this very moment, he’s good with it. Allows it to settle in and make itself cozy. It doesn’t mean he has to stop trying, and it doesn’t mean he has to be overcoming every second of the day.

For right now, he can just be. And maybe, he thinks, that’s all he’s really wanted permission from himself to do this whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this particular story is finished, I might be writing/posting some scenes that didn't make it into the story. I've never done one-shots before, but I loved writing this and if you have any ideas related to this fic, you can leave them in the comments!
> 
> I also wrote Outnumbered, in which Peter has type one diabetes. You can subscribe and get updates for that story as well.
> 
> THANK YOU AGAIN!!


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